Dracaena Draco.
by Al
Summary: 1st story of 3 in the 'Dark Rising' arc. Set immediately after GoF, Dracaena Draco puts the usually indomitable Draco Malfoy in a situation that will change his life. In a time when nobody is quite what they seem, can the Dark Side really be divided?
1. A Miserable Summer

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
Dracaena Draco forms Part One of the 'Dark Rising' trilogy. This story arc takes up immediately where J.K. Rowling left off at the end of Goblet of Fire, and takes place in her implied timeline, ergo, this begins in the Summer of 1995.  
  
DISCLAIMER  
  
Most of the characters, locations and concepts referenced within this work belong to J.K. Rowling and other production companies. I imply no rights myself ... I'm just having fun in her world!  
  
PART ONE. A MISERABLE SUMMER.  
  
It was a sultry evening in late June, and the air over suburban Surrey was filled with the smoke of a thousand barbecues. Harry stared glumly through the car window as Uncle Vernon drove along those familiar roads. Down the High Street ... left at the Texaco filling station, down Hertsmere Avenue, then left into Greenacres. Huge, double garaged houses lined the road. Then finally, right, into Privet Drive. There was the post box on the corner, the dark green cable TV box. There was ... despite everything ... there was home. The very thought gave Harry no pleasure at all.  
  
Uncle Vernon parked on the drive. He had bought another car since Harry had last been at home ... a shiny MG Roadster. Evidently Grunnings had been doing rather well.  
  
Harry opened the car door, and stepped out ... the back of his shirt was horrid and sweaty through having to sit still so long. There was no sign of life inside the house. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.  
  
Uncle Vernon didn't even stop to help him drag his impossibly heavy school trunk out of the boot of the car. Summoning every reserve of strength in his scrawny body, Harry heaved the trunk out, and it landed with a crack at his feet. Uncle Vernon had not noticed ... he was busy unlocking the door.  
  
"Come on then. We haven't got all night," Uncle Vernon grumbled, as Harry struggled up to the front door.  
  
Somehow, Harry managed to drag his trunk all the way up to his room, though his arms were aching through the effort. He flopped down on the unmade bed. Uncle Vernon came to stand at the door, and stared at him with a certain measure of disgust. Then he left him be. Harry stared up at the ceiling. There was a single, bare bulb hanging from a new light fitting that appeared to have been installed by a cowboy electrician. There were exposed wires hanging from the switch, which hadn't been screwed back into place afterwards.  
  
Harry waved his wand about absent-mindedly in the air. From inside her cage, Hedwig hooted impatiently, waiting to be let out. Harry was too tired to pay any attention to her. He closed his eyes, and wished himself back at Hogwarts.  
  
************  
  
"I need hardly remind you, Draco ... that any disobedience towards myself or your Mother will be severely punished?"  
  
Draco nodded sheepishly. He was standing in his Father's enormous study, several feet away from the vast oak desk, at which sat his Father, Lucius Malfoy, his face as gaunt and pinched as ever. He regarded the boy without pity. Draco wrung his hands, wanting nothing more than to be somewhere else ... at least at Hogwarts, I don't have to be treated like an imbecile, he thought.  
  
"Dinner will be served in twenty minutes," Lucius went on, returning to the letter he was drafting. His quill pen flew across the parchment ... the frenzied scratching the only sound in the cool, dark room. The evening sunshine slanted through the windows, casting his Father's face in shadow. "You will attend."  
  
"Yes, Father," said Draco, bowing his head.  
  
"You will wear full dress robes, of course."  
  
Draco looked up in annoyance. "Father ... it's so hot," he moaned.  
  
Lucius Malfoy shook his head gravely. "You will do as I say, Draco. Get out of my sight."  
  
Draco turned, gratefully, and fled the study. He pounded upstairs to his bedroom, and slammed the door shut behind him. The servants had already brought his school trunk up ... and his broomstick was leaning up against the wall. Someone had very conscientiously straightened all the twigs. There was also a set of jet black dress robes draped over the bed. Draco sat down on the bed, and regarded them gloomily.  
  
"Bloody things," he hissed. He stood up again, slipped off his school shoes, and padded over to the window. He opened it wide, desperate for some cool air, but there was no breeze outside. Down below in the ornamental garden the fountains played, and one of the gardeners trudged wearily along the path, pushing a wheelbarrow. Beyond the well clipped privet hedges, the exquisitely kept lawns of Malfoy Park stretched down to the lake, whose waters glittered in the soft tones of evening sunlight. Draco had never tired of this view. He remembered learning to row on the little lake, in an old wooden dinghy.  
  
So musing, he turned away from the window, and padded back over to the bed. He undid his choking school tie, and flung it to the floor. Then he removed his fine silk summer robes, though he was more conscious of hanging them neatly. The dress robes were still lying there, like some sort of affront. Horrible, heavy, and black. I'm going to need a shower before bed tonight, thought Draco.  
  
***********  
  
Harry woke up ... he didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but it was now dark outside, and there was a large moth fluttering round his light bulb. He contemplated catching it for Hedwig, but simply couldn't be bothered to stir and make the effort, so he watched it for a few minutes longer, as it tried repeatedly to fly into the light.  
  
He could still hear movement downstairs ... people walking about in the kitchen. It dawned on him how hungry he really was, not having eaten since a meagre snack on the Hogwarts Express. He suspected the Dursleys had probably eaten, some overcooked, fat laden, greasy feast no doubt. He couldn't help noticing, as they drove home from King's Cross, how much weight his Uncle seemed to have put on during the past year. Harry was certain he hadn't been that corpulent this time last summer. Probably he had just overindulged at Christmas, and was still working it off. He smiled at the thought of Uncle Vernon, red faced, panting on a treadmill in a gym full of equally fat people.  
  
Footsteps tramped slowly up the stairs. Harry sat up. Hedwig regarded him somewhat suspiciously, her head on one side. He heard his Aunt's voice.  
  
"Where should I put these clothes, Dudley?" she asked. If anything, her voice had become more high pitched ... more whiny.  
  
A sound, akin to the mating cry of a large bull elephant, rang out from the bedroom next door. Evidently, she had distracted Dudley's attention from whatever computer game he was currently engrossed in. He heard a door slam, and a voice raised, it sounded like Dudley, but what he was saying, Harry couldn't tell. He had no particular wish to get reacquainted with his cousin so soon.  
  
He sat up in bed, and opened the window, not caring how many bugs got in. He peeled off his school uniform, then lay back down on top of the covers, waiting for sleep to overtake him.  
  
***********  
  
Draco dabbed daintily at his mouth with a napkin. That money his parents had spent on etiquette lessons for him as a little boy had indeed been well spent. As he had always thought ... some have natural manners and charm, and some ... like that scrawny oaf Potter, had none. He had heard rumours, mainly from his fellow Slytherins, that Potter was forced to live with Muggles during the holidays, and what was more, was consistently maltreated by them. He smiled at the thought of Harry on his hands and knees on a kitchen floor somewhere, scrubbing for all he was worth. It was no more than the boy deserved, thought Draco. Probably it was why he was so skinny.  
  
"Did we have a satisfactory term, Draco?" his Mother was asking. She sounded like someone had rammed a poker up her arse. Draco awoke from his daydream.  
  
"Very much so," he said, meekly.  
  
"I am glad to hear it," said Narcissa Malfoy, refilling her glass with wine. Lucius watched her, disapprovingly. "I would expect no more from a son of mine."  
  
"It was very satisfactory," said Draco. He pouted. "If only somebody would do something about those damn Gryffindors."  
  
Lucius and Narcissa looked at their son with something approaching concern. "Has that bloody Potter boy been getting at you again?"  
  
Draco nodded. "All the time. I try to ignore it ... but I know Crabbe and Goyle cry themselves to sleep most nights."  
  
Narcissa looked to Lucius, utterly scandalised. "Something needs to be done about that boy," she said. "Somebody should speak to Dumbledore. He needs a good talking to."  
  
"Potter needs a good beating," Lucius smiled as he remembered the events that had transpired just a few short weeks ago. "That's what's wrong with children today. Parents are too soft on them."  
  
"Not at all like you, Father," said Draco, uncertainly. Lucius favoured him with a fatherly smile ... a rare event in their house.  
  
"Quite, quite," said Lucius, quite unaware that Draco was sweating profusely under his heavy woollen robes. "A short, sharp shock ... that's always been how the Malfoys have raised their children."  
  
"I dare say," volunteered Narcissa. "That these Muggles with whom Potter lives with are too soft on him?"  
  
Lucius shook his head. "By the rumours flying around the Ministry, they are by no means soft on him. That's probably where the boy gets his attitude from. We can't be having Muggles teaching our kind their filthy ways. It's as I've always said. The more of their kind you let closer to us, the more polluted the bloodlines become. Remember we are not as feared, or as numerous, as we were centuries ago. Bad or foolish breeding could drive us extinct in two generations."  
  
"It's what you get for marrying into a Muggle family, after all," Narcissa went on, sipping her wine. "Would we care for more dessert, Draco?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Thank you, we're full."  
  
"I have partaken of sufficient sustenance," corrected Lucius. "To indulge further would be an extravagance."  
  
"Of course, Father," said Draco, meekly. "I stand corrected."  
  
"If I were headmaster of Hogwarts, I would reconsider the admissions policy," Lucius went on. "It simply cannot be allowed."  
  
"That girl Granger is a Mudblood," said Draco, thoughtfully.  
  
Lucius snorted. "I expected nothing less," he said. "She cavorts with the vagabond Potter and the Muggle loving Weasleys after all."  
  
Draco nodded his silent agreement.  
  
************  
  
Harry, dressed for heat in shorts, an old vest and sandals that were four sizes too big for him, had been set to work repainting the gazebo. The gazebo was a nightmarish, trellised structure painted a brilliant white, which Aunt Petunia had bought some years earlier. Harry expected that, on summer nights, it would be pleasant to sit out there, next to the large pond, watching the goldfish, and sipping a glass of something. However, any such experience was so alien to him that he could never picture himself indulging in it. For now, he was stuck up a rickety old stepladder, slapping white emulsion onto the roof with a paint roller, the sun beating down upon his shoulders. The fumes were making him dizzy ... but he knew that he wouldn't be allowed any food until the job was done, so he stuck at it, fantasising about the feasts he had enjoyed at school.  
  
Someone was playing music loudly out of an upstairs window. Harry turned to see where it was coming from. He could see the enormous bulk of his cousin, Dudley, sitting in his room, some song Harry couldn't recognise blaring out of his radio. He didn't seem to have noticed Harry staring at him.  
  
Slowly, he dipped his roller in the paint again.  
  
***********  
  
Draco was passing a far more pleasant day. He had spent the morning lying by the swimming pool in his fluffy bathrobe, sipping on any number of glasses of lemonade, reading a borrowed book, and wondering whether or not to go for a swim, every time deciding against it. He knew from bitter experience that he did not tan easily, indeed he usually went from pale white to broiled lobster almost straight away, so he tended to avoid the sun. His Father had made a promise to take him riding around the estate that afternoon, which he was looking forward to. The weeks stretched out before him, a void of blanks in his diary, waiting to be filled. Perhaps these holidays wouldn't be so bad. There was homework to do, of course, but that could safely be left until the last week. He rang his little bell for more lemonade.  
  
Narcissa appeared from out of the French windows, sporting her latest bathing suit (a Simon Branford creation). She smiled at Draco.  
  
"Are you going to take a dip?" she asked.  
  
Draco shook his head. "Maybe later ... when the sun's less strong."  
  
Narcissa sat down on the edge of the pool, and dabbled her toes in the water. "It's lovely and cool," she said.  
  
Draco methodically licked his finger before turning the page.  
  
Narcissa slipped into the pool, and swam over to the other side. Draco returned to his book ...  
  
... Dracaena Draco, commonly known as the Dragon Tree. This rare specimen, which grows mainly in southern Europe, the Balkans, Turkey and the South-Western United States, has long been prized by wizards for it's restorative powers. It was much used as a healing herb by wizard doctors before modern magical advances rendered it obsolete in the early part of the Twentieth Century. However it has enjoyed popularity in recent years, owing to its powerful hallucinogenic effect. For this reason it was banned under the terms of the Regulation of Magical Drugs and Narcotics Act (1966). Its full powers remain unknown to this day, as few specimens are in existence. It is known that it was much used by Lord Voldemort and his supporters as an instrument of torture during the early 1980s ...  
  
Draco turned the page ...  
  
... and it is now widely believed that the drug was used routinely by Death Eaters as well, some of whom may have used it to blank out instances of Muggle torture and other deeds.  
  
He set down the book. He was beginning to feel quite dozy.  
  
***********  
  
Lunch turned out to be half a lettuce leaf and a slice of tomato. Harry, who was famished, as he had only had a slice of dry toast for breakfast, looked at it with great disappointment. Despite himself, he found himself asking. "Is that it?"  
  
Aunt Petunia's hawk like eyes swivelled round to him. "What did you say?" she asked, in a voice cold as ice.  
  
Harry decided caution was the best option. "Nothing," he said.  
  
"Don't lie to me," she snarled. "I heard you loud and clear. You said ... 'is that it?'"  
  
Harry shook his head in deference. "No," he said.  
  
"I said, don't lie," hissed Petunia.  
  
Harry took up his plate, and took a step backwards. "It looks lovely," he said, hurriedly. Dudley, who was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging his horrid fat legs happily, and watching out of his beady eyes, put his hand protectively in front of his huge helping of shepherd's pie. He had still not gotten over the toffee incident the previous summer.  
  
Aunt Petunia snatched the plate away from him. "Ungrateful little boys do not get fed at all in this house," she kicked open the pedal bin, and scraped Harry's pathetic lunch into it. "In this house, we are grateful for what we are given, aren't we?"  
  
Harry nodded, sheepishly.  
  
"Rest assured I will be having words with your Uncle when he gets home," said Aunt Petunia. "I wouldn't be surprised if he took the carpet beater to you."  
  
Harry flinched. Usually, the carpet beater was used for ... well ... beating carpets. Needless to say, Harry's Uncle had found another, more entertaining use for it.  
  
"Now get outside and finish your painting," she said. "Then the pond wants cleaning ... and when you've done that, there's Dudley's toenails need cutting."  
  
Harry glared at her in anger so intense as he could never remember having felt before. If Aunt Petunia felt anything though, she hid it well.  
  
"You'll be done by five mind, else you'll get no supper."  
  
Harry turned, and slouched back out to the garden, not daring to say anything, though the set of his shoulders and the expression on his face betrayed how he was feeling inside. That is to say, cut up. He was so thirsty he thought he might try and drink the pond dry ... at least then it wouldn't need cleaning. He stopped, and looked back to the house. Aunt Petunia was standing in the kitchen window, her arms folded, an expression of the utmost distaste upon her face. Hurriedly, he picked up his roller, and righted the stepladder. Harry didn't doubt at all that she would be having words with Uncle Vernon when he got home. This was how she coped with the slightest indiscretion, and the result was usually a lecture, a beating, or some other punishment.  
  
But all the same, he was so very, very thirsty. Still the sun beat down upon him. He resumed his wearisome task.  
  
***********  
  
True to his promise, Lucius Malfoy returned early from the Ministry that day to take Draco round the estate. The Malfoys had a long history of championship horse breeding, and their stables were amongst the most extensive in England. Lucius was particularly fond of his two winged horses, imported specially from Greece ... they were thoroughbred magical creatures and won prizes ... the trophies were kept in a glass cabinet in the study.  
  
Draco came down to the stables, freshly changed into his starchy riding outfit that he knew his father would demand, to find one of the servants had just finished saddling Nero and Salazar.  
  
"Your Father should be along any moment now," said the servant, bowing so low his nose almost touched the floor, before speedily withdrawing, leaving Draco with the horses, which were pawing the ground and snorting. Draco had bagged some extra carrots from the kitchen, and he fed these to the horses as he waited. It was deliciously cool in the stables.  
  
"Come, Draco," an icy voice said behind him. "I see you are all ready?"  
  
Draco spun round. "Hello, Father," he said. "Did you have a good morning?"  
  
Lucius Malfoy took off his white kid gloves, and patted the horses' flanks. "Barely tolerable," he said, as Nero unfolded his wings and flapped them about. "We had a meeting with some ridiculous junior in the Department for International Magical Co-Operation. Some clap trap about standardising cauldron sizes. Utter nonsense of course ... man could barely sting two comprehensible words together."  
  
He took Nero by the bridle, and lead the beast out of its stall. "You may ride Salazar today Draco," he said.  
  
"Thank you, Father," said Draco. Salazar was Lucius Malfoy's favourite, and usually nobody else was allowed near him. He had a beautiful silvery white coat, which matched Draco's hair almost exactly. Draco picked up his riding crop, and clicked his tongue to make the horse follow. "Come on, boy," he said. His Father had already mounted Nero, and the horse was clopping around in the stable yard outside, beating its wings.  
  
"Come on, Draco," his Father was saying. "We won't be back before sunset at this rate. I have friends coming down from the Ministry for dinner."  
  
Draco mounted Salazar, and holding tightly to the reins, for although he was an experienced horseman, it had been nearly a whole year since he had last ridden, followed Nero and his Father out of the stables, and down the track towards the park land.  
  
"We were forced to repair the ha-ha," said Lucius. "We had some serious rain last Winter. There was a land slip."  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"Osgoode saw to it of course," Osgoode was the Malfoy's head groundskeeper, a bitter old individual with a temper to match, who often during Draco's childhood had chased him off his prize lawns. Draco hated the man.  
  
"Osgoode is well?" he asked, as they forded the small stream.  
  
"As well as could be expected," said Lucius.  
  
"And the game. Was there good hunting this year Father?"  
  
"Some of the best we've had," said Lucius. "The pheasant shoot went off without a hitch, and the deer hunt."  
  
Draco smiled his approval. The Malfoy's hunts were legendary amongst the magical elite, and it would have been a scandal if the hunting had not been as excellent as usual. They were riding along a narrow path through long grass, the dusty air filled with the buzzing of crickets, Draco a little way behind his Father. The horses ruffled their wings.  
  
"I shall expect nothing but the very best results when finally this estate is handed over to you, Draco," his Father remarked. "It has been in the family for six hundred years. It would be shameful to allow it to go to the dogs."  
  
Draco nodded. "I'll try my best," he said.  
  
"I may well not be with you much longer," said Lucius, as they reached the top of a small hill. Around them the heath stretched away in every direction. In the distance, on a low rise, its lush lawns standing out in stark contrast against the parched yellow grass of the wilderness, was the house itself, looking quite benevolent, almost serene. In the opposite direction the land stretched away to the village, nestling in a hollow between two small hills. Many years earlier, some Muggles had tried to build a motorway through there, but the contractors had been scared off.  
  
"It would be foolish," Lucius went on, scanning the family land with his hand held to his face as a sunshade. "Not to instruct you in the management of it. Come, Draco, there is something I wish to show you," he gave Nero a sharp boot in the side, and the horse moved off down the hill. Draco followed.  
  
***********  
  
The Malfoys tied their horses up outside Osgoode's small house. Draco was unsure quite why he had been brought here, but if his fifteen years had taught him anything, it was not to question his Father's motives under any circumstances.  
  
Lucius strode up the path, and hammered on the front door. "Osgoode!" he called. "Are you there?"  
  
Draco, who was hanging back by the garden gate, took a step forwards. He could hear the hacking sound of someone coughing. Osgoode emerged from round the side of the house. He was wearing a dirty brown jacket, and, despite the heat, a pair of thick trousers, wellingtons and a heavy scarf around his neck.  
  
"Afternoon, Master," he growled. "I was as just watering my tomato plants."  
  
"I see," said Lucius. "I think Draco would like to see your new plants."  
  
"Aye, the special ones," said Osgoode. "You has better come round the back then ... take a look."  
  
He turned round, and shambled off around the side of the house. Lucius turned to Draco, and nodded to the boy to follow. Draco pulled off his gloves, and tucked them neatly in his jacket pocket, before following the gardener. Lucius fell into step behind him.  
  
Osgoode was kneeling down beside a small patch of earth, a small, earth stained and rusty trowel in his hand. He beckoned Draco closer.  
  
"Now, Master Draco, do you know as what these here plants are?"  
  
Draco crouched down next to him. He shook his head. There were six or seven of them, all small, wispy ferns by the looks of them.  
  
"I don't know," he said. "Bracken?"  
  
Osgoode chuckled under his breath. "Why the young Master as thinks I'd be growing bracken is beyond me."  
  
Draco turned to stare at him with an expression of great disgust on his face. To him, Osgoode had always seemed a minor, dirty irritation on the fringes of his existence. Draco hazarded a guess. "Isn't it good for poultices and stuff?" he asked.  
  
Osgoode nodded. "Bracken, aye, maybes, but this stuff. No, this is a completely different game of fish."  
  
"What is it then?" asked Draco.  
  
Osgoode pulled up one of the plants, and handed it to Draco. Draco sniffed it cautiously.  
  
"It's like lavender," he said.  
  
"This is called a dragon tree," said Osgoode, taking the grubbed up plant back from Draco, and crushing it in his grip. "Have you ever heard of one of those?"  
  
"As a matter of fact, yes," said Draco. "Just this morning. But why should there be some growing here?"  
  
"It is the safest place," said Lucius, stepping closer so that he cast a shadow over his crouching son. "Nobody would think to come prying around here."  
  
"Aye, and t'is right close, so I can keep an eye on it," said Osgoode, mysteriously.  
  
"Draco," said his Father. "Are you aware of the properties of this plant?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"Yes, well, you would know," he said. "I noticed that particular book was missing from my study this morning."  
  
Draco froze.  
  
"I am not going to punish you," said Lucius. "Initiative can oft be a virtue after all. Would you care to know exactly why Osgoode and I have embarked on this, horticultural experiment?"  
  
Draco didn't much care to know, but he nodded anyway, and relaxed too.  
  
"This plant, when prepared and treated properly, is a powerful narcotic. You know already, I dare say, that it was one of Lord Voldemort's favourite little 'preparations,'" said Lucius. "Do you know why?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Could he control people with it, or something like that?" he asked.  
  
"I told you he wasn't as stupid as he looked, Osgoode," said Lucius, turning to the gardener. Draco blushed bright red. Lucius turned back to his son. "Indeed, Draco, you have hit the nail right on the head. It is an instrument of control. What do you think Osgoode and I intend to do with it?"  
  
"Control people?"  
  
Osgoode grinned. "He's gone and done it again, Master."  
  
"Indeed," said Lucius, turning up his nose as if Osgoode was some foul odour. "Indeed we do, Draco. Lord Voldemort was returned to this mortal world mere weeks ago ... but without this ... he is useless. He is weak, and he cannot hope to regain the power of which he was once possessed. This was proven to me when he and the Potter boy duelled. Lord Voldemort needs what I can supply him with. My position is thus strengthened."  
  
"It's genius," said Draco, blankly. He sniffed the plant again.  
  
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Lucius. "It has been known to have effects even in small doses."  
  
Draco hurriedly dropped the leaves he held. He had no particular wish to investigate further.  
  
Lucius Malfoy put his gloves back on. "Come, Draco," he said. "There is much still to see, and the afternoon is not infinite," he turned to Osgoode. "See that the plants are watered. They must be ready for harvest by September. That is imperative."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
Lucius turned to Draco. "I trust I am assured of your silence in this matter?" he asked. "I would not hesitate to punish you severely should this get out."  
  
***********  
  
Ron was lying on the grass in the back garden, looking up at the cloudless sky ... a sky that was a breathtaking, deep, aquamarine blue. It was late afternoon on another sweltering hot day, and the shadows were beginning to lengthen. The grass was still damp from the water fight they had had earlier, and Ron relished the coolness against his back. The heat wave was starting to bite ... sleep had become nigh on impossible, and there was talk of water shortages. The summer holidays were drifting lazily by ... it was now mid-August, and he was starting to get bored. He had heard nothing of Hermione, and Harry hadn't replied to any of the owls he'd sent.  
  
He was distracted from his reverie by a shout from indoors. His mother was calling him again. Sighing deeply, Ron got up, and slouched indoors. Molly Weasley was standing by the kitchen sink, reading a roll of parchment.  
  
"It's for you," she said, as Ron came in. She rolled up the parchment, and handed it to him. "I think it's from Hermione."  
  
"You're not supposed to read other people's letters," protested Ron, glowering. Hermione might have had something embarrassing to say. "Especially mine."  
  
Molly shrugged. "I like to keep abreast of all the gossip," she said.  
  
"The day Hermione comes by any gossip to speak of, will be the day Satan goes to work on a snowplough," snarled Ron.  
  
"You haven't read her letter then," Molly said, finally.  
  
"I only just got it, Mum," said Ron. Flustered, he went to sit down at the table, where he unrolled the parchment.  
  
'Dear Ron,  
  
We just got back from Greece today, hope you got my postcard.'  
  
Ron hadn't. The letter continued;  
  
'I am worried about Harry. It's been nearly three weeks since his birthday and we haven't heard anything from him. Do you know what's happening? Is he coming to stay with you? Please write back soon.  
  
Love, Hermione.'  
  
She had put kisses at the bottom in lurid purple ink.  
  
"So do you?" asked Molly.  
  
"Mum ... this is very private!" snapped Ron.  
  
"You mean to say you weren't worried about him too?" asked Molly. "We heard absolutely nothing, even though I sent him that cake. You'd almost think he was being ungrateful. Not that he is of course," she added, catching Ron's expression.  
  
Ron shook his head. "He's probably being kept under lock and key, as usual," he said. "All the same, if Hermione's noticed. Perhaps I should owl him again."  
  
"You'd better invite him to stay," said Molly, bustling around with saucepans. "God knows how he's getting on with those Muggles. It's obvious they don't treat him right. He needs feeding up, not starving."  
  
"Thank you, Mum," said Ron, firmly. "I'll write him first thing tomorrow."  
  
"Mind you do," said Molly. "Something must be up ... it isn't like Harry to ignore letters."  
  
She resumed her washing up.  
  
***********  
  
The Dursley's were having a swimming pool installed. Aunt Petunia had been spying on the neighbours again, and had been shocked to discover that several of them seemed to be trying to get one up on her. So since early July, she had been pestering Vernon to get a quote, and he had finally given way, thinking privately that his wife had actually had a very good idea. Harry had watched out of his bedroom window as several men in suits came round to take measurements, and then a couple of weeks later, just after his birthday, they had begun work with a JCB digger. The noise had woken Harry up.  
  
Now it was finished. The crystal clear waters sparkled in the afternoon sunshine as Harry gazed longingly out of the window. He would have liked nothing better to have a dip, but knew it was out of the question.  
  
Harry was passing the most miserable summer of his life. The Dursleys had found a wealth of new little jobs that urgently needed doing, usually ones that required Harry to squeeze into very small, dark spaces and repeatedly hit something, usually his thumb, with a hammer. He had also received nothing for his birthday. No owls, no cakes, nothing ... not even from Sirius. He knew Hermione was being dragged round Greece by her parents (though knowing Hermione, she was probably dragging them) and therefore she could be excused, but not to have heard anything from Ron, or Sirius, or Hagrid, was too bad. He felt forgotten by everybody. It hurt doubly that, though Dudley had miraculously lost several pounds and was back on his normal diet, poor Harry was still being restricted to starvation rations. He was very worried that he might be wasting away ... although he had always been skinny, he was now able to see the outlines of his ribs through his chest, and he was fairly sure that wasn't right.  
  
He was lying on his bed, amusing himself by keeping still for as long as possible, and listening to the sounds coming from the pool, where Dudley and his friends appeared to be having fun. Harry wouldn't have wanted to join them anyway, but he still felt very left out.  
  
He stared up at the ceiling. He had mentioned to Uncle Vernon that the light fitting was a death trap, but had had his ears boxed for his trouble, and told that he should be bloody grateful that they looked after him at all.  
  
He would have murdered for some ice cream.  
  
************  
  
He woke up. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, though it was now dark outside, so he guessed some time. An empty feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that once again he had managed to miss dinner. The complete absence of any sound in the house told him he was quite alone. He stood up, and padded over to the door. His instincts were correct. There was nobody home. He wondered where they had gone. He went downstairs, checked all the rooms, and even opened the French windows to make sure they weren't hiding in the garden. Then, suppressing a whoop of joy, he went through into the kitchen.  
  
There was a plate on the table with a single lettuce leaf, a grated carrot and a hunk of cucumber on it, together with a note. Harry screwed up the note without even reading it, and threw it away.  
  
"Thanks for nothing," he said to himself. Somewhere, he could hear thumping music. Of course, that was where they'd gone. The neighbours at number six were having a barbecue and had invited the whole street. Although Vernon and Petunia hated her at number six and her pretentious ways (back in 1987 she'd had the cheek to install a burglar alarm before the Dursleys had), they were not the kind to turn up their noses at free grub. Dudley had been talking about nothing else for several days.  
  
Harry opened the fridge. He was never normally allowed within ten feet of it, in case he should try and steal some food, so what he saw was somewhat of a revelation.  
  
There was half of a gooey, chocolate cake, meticulously decorated beyond Aunt Petunia's culinary capability, several large bottles of Coke, two lemon meringue pies, half a roast chicken, and more. Harry's mouth dropped open.  
  
The writing on top of the cake caught his eye. He turned it round so that he could read it. It said; 'Hap Birt Har.'  
  
His birthday cake?  
  
"You bastards," he said, softly. "You horrible bastards."  
  
Not caring whether the Dursleys caught him or not, Harry took a knife out of the cutlery drawer, and cut himself a very substantial piece of the cake. He also took one of the chicken legs, and then closed the door, thinking he had better not tempt fate too much. He wrapped the chicken leg in a piece of cling-film to save for later, and took the biggest bite he could out of the cake. To a boy who had been living on gerbil food for nearly six weeks now, it tasted like heaven itself. Harry swallowed it without bothering to chew much, and took another bite.  
  
He heard a noise. He swallowed hurriedly, and pricked up his ears ... every inch of his body tensed suddenly. Was that a key in the lock? Or was it just some cat outside?  
  
A wave of panic swept over Harry. It was the key in the lock. He could hear the front door opening. He stuffed the chicken leg into the pocket of his shorts, and dived under the kitchen table.  
  
"Bloody good feed," Uncle Vernon was saying. "Those pork chops, really hit the spot."  
  
"Perhaps we should have a barbecue," Aunt Petunia said.  
  
Uncle Vernon snorted. "Might be a good idea that," he said. "You could do one of your lovely salads."  
  
"I was thinking, more burgers," Dudley's voice.  
  
"That's my boy! I like a lad who appreciates good food," Vernon roared. "Burgers it shall be. None of your namby-pamby salads for our Dudley here."  
  
"Oh no, nothing but good red meat for our Dudley!"  
  
Harry crouched under the kitchen table, not daring to make a move. Please let them go to bed straight away ... please don't let them want a drink.  
  
He heard Uncle Vernon's footsteps, and then the kitchen light came on. Harry froze. He was standing in the doorway.  
  
"Is everything all right?"  
  
"Could have sworn I heard a noise," said Vernon. "Probably just the dripping tap. I'll have to fix a new washer. Get Harry to do it tomorrow will you?"  
  
"Of course," Aunt Petunia's high heeled shoes clicked past. Harry hardly dared breathe.  
  
"Fancy a night cap?" Vernon asked.  
  
"I'll make you some hot chocolate," said Aunt Petunia, opening one of the high cupboards. "You're not to have any more alcohol tonight."  
  
"I dare say you're right, I dare say you're right," said Uncle Vernon, sadly.  
  
"You heard what Doctor Mitchell told you. You carry on drinking like you do, and you'll give yourself a coronary before you're fifty."  
  
Vernon came over, and took a seat at the kitchen table. He stuck out his feet, narrowly missing Harry, and kicked off his shoes.  
  
"Ah, that's better," he said.  
  
Harry gagged at the stench. Uncle Vernon's feet were absolutely fetid. He had never smelled anything so horrible. He was going to ... he gagged again ... then felt himself retch.  
  
"What the hell was that?" Uncle Vernon roared.  
  
"I didn't hear anything," said Aunt Petunia.  
  
"Somebody made a noise."  
  
Aunt Petunia turned round. Then she let out a little scream ... there was a clatter as the tin of chocolate powder fell to the wooden floor.  
  
"Vernon," she was pointing at something.  
  
"Whatever is it, woman? You're white as a sheet," said Uncle Vernon.  
  
"There's somebody under the table," she hissed.  
  
"Don't be bloody ridiculous," laughed Uncle Vernon. "Somebody under the table? Never heard such rot."  
  
"There's somebody under the table."  
  
Uncle Vernon lifted up the edge of the cloth. Harry turned to shield his face, his cake still clutched in his hand. The man let out a strangled cry.  
  
"It's only Harry," he said. "What in blazes are you doing under there? Get out, you horrible wretch!"  
  
Feeling weak at the knees, Harry crawled out from under the table, and got to his feet. He tried to hide the cake behind his back, it was melting and squelchy in his hand.  
  
"Hello," he said. "I think I found it. I'll go to bed no..."  
  
"You'll do no such thing," growled Uncle Vernon. "You'll explain what you were doing under the table. Spying on us was it?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "Not at all."  
  
"What are you hiding, boy?"  
  
Harry shook. "Nothing, I'm not hiding anything."  
  
"Don't dare bloody well lie to me," roared Uncle Vernon, his face as red as a beetroot. "You're hiding something. You've got your hands behind your back. Show me what it is!"  
  
Slowly, Harry took his hand out from behind his back. The cake was squeezed into a nasty, sticky mess.  
  
"Stealing!" hissed Uncle Vernon. "You've been stealing from us!"  
  
I'm not going to stand for this, thought Harry, scowling at his Uncle. "I was taking what was mine," said Harry. "It was my cake. It had my name on it, and you were hiding it from me!"  
  
Uncle Vernon looked somewhat flabbergasted. He seemed lost for words. "How dare you speak to me like that."  
  
"Very easily," snarled Harry, sounding braver than he actually felt. "I'm not taking any of your rubbish! I've had it with you!"  
  
Uncle Vernon rose from his chair, like a tidal wave of wobbly flesh. There was murder in his eyes. Harry leant on the counter top for support. Before he knew fully what was happening, he had been slapped hard across the face.  
  
"Never," Uncle Vernon was roaring, "have I been so insulted in my own home. Never before in my life have I been so insulted!"  
  
Harry's face was numb with pain, he scowled more than ever, blinking back tears of pain. He wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of that.  
  
"Out of the goodness of our hearts! We've taken good care of you all your life ... and then you repay us like this? You steal from us?"  
  
"I've not been stealing," said Harry. He could feel blood trickling from his nose.  
  
"The evidence is there, in your hands!" yelled Uncle Vernon. "There'll be hell to pay for this boy! You realise that?"  
  
"What'll you do then?" retorted Harry, bitterly.  
  
"Boys who steal from me ... are nasty, horrible little worms. Boys who steal from me do not go unpunished."  
  
Harry didn't dare say anything, he clenched his fists defiantly. Uncle Vernon removed his belt, and began to roll it around his right hand. Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and screwed up his face.  
  
Uncle Vernon leant down close to him. Harry could smell the beer on his breath. "Boys who steal from me, are no good, low down cheats, scum. You're nothing but scum!"  
  
Harry could stand it no longer. Gathering all his strength, he put his face up close to Uncle Vernon's, and yelled. "I am not scum!" for all he was worth.  
  
"You're nothing but a little thief. An insolent little thief who doesn't know when he's well off."  
  
He struck Harry with the belt.  
  
***********  
  
Draco was also passing an increasingly miserable summer holiday. His Father had gone away somewhere, and his Mother, who all his life had proved outstandingly inept when it came to raising children, seemed to be ignoring him. None of the servants wanted to talk to him, which didn't bother Draco, because he didn't particularly want to talk to them. Nor were any of his friends at home. He knew the Crabbes were holidaying in Menorca that year, as he had received a postcard, but of Goyle, there appeared to be no sign. So Draco passed the days lying on his bed, or lying next to the pool trying not to get sunburned, and devising ever more elaborate ways of looking like he was doing his homework without actually doing any. He was beginning to think that the only option open to him was, indeed, to do his homework.  
  
He was almost tempted to go and see how the little plants he had been shown were getting on ... but Osgoode had taken to patrolling the grounds with a very fearsome looking shotgun, and Draco knew very well that this probably was bad news. Besides, he found the man utterly repellent.  
  
It was getting on for ten o'clock. He got up, showered, dressed and headed downstairs to see if he couldn't scrounge some breakfast. The house appeared deserted. His footfall seemed to echo on the hard stone floors. The Malfoys hanging from the wall in the portrait gallery eyed him somewhat disdainfully. Most of them appeared to be asleep.  
  
"Bored, Draco?" someone asked. Draco spun round to see who had spoken. Very few of the ancestors ever bothered to talk to him. It turned out to be Temperance Malfoy (1615-1644), who sported a very wide brimmed hat with a red feather in it, and a flintlock musket.  
  
"Rather," said Draco, putting his hands nonchalantly in the pockets of his robes, and shambling over.  
  
"Not surprised," Temperance said. "I am too ... this lot are bloody dull aren't they?"  
  
"They're ancestors," said Draco.  
  
"Is that who the buggers are? I'll be damned. Bit of a bunch or rogues aren't they?" Draco could have sworn Temperance winked at him.  
  
"Father always said you were the black sheep," said Draco. "All the others are wizards."  
  
"None of them ever talk to me," said Temperance.  
  
"You were a squib," said Draco ... he had been so bored that he had ended up reading the ancient, leather bound copy of 'A Familie Historye of the Malfoyes', and to his deep chagrin, had committed great chunks of it to memory.  
  
"That's right," said Temperance. "Old Septimus Malfoy cut me off without a penny to my name. Had to earn my living, fighting for King and country."  
  
"When did you do any fighting?" asked Draco. The history book was surprisingly deficient when it came to Temperance's later life ... he had been expelled from Hogwarts for not being able to do any magic. That was all anybody really knew about him  
  
"Civil War," said Temperance. "Don't they teach you anything in these schools?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Not Muggle history," he said. "Father says it's all lies anyway."  
  
"No insult intended boy, but what your Father thinks is very usually a complete load of horse manure."  
  
Draco was insulted. "How can you judge him?" he said. "You don't even know him!"  
  
"He comes down here sometimes and talks to us," said Temperance, who had produced an ivory comb from somewhere, and was running it idly through his long, curly hair. "I was killed you know. By a bloody Roundhead. Battle of Marston Moor, 1644."  
  
"Really?"  
  
Temperance nodded. "The bastard came at me from behind. It wasn't much fun."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Then I died, you silly oaf."  
  
"What's that like?" asked Draco.  
  
"It is very dull," said Temperance. "That's all I wish to say on the matter. Anyway, the rest is history ... Parliament won the war, knocked the King's head off, declared England a Commonwealth, and then cocked it up completely. Ten years later, they had to bring the King back ... apparently a lot of faces were rather red at the time."  
  
Draco didn't pretend he was especially interested. Then Temperance leaned forwards a bit.  
  
"You know what?" he said. "Very few people know this ... at the time, they said Parliament couldn't lose because they had all of our ... your kind on their side."  
  
"Did they?"  
  
"Buggered if I know. The Puritans were always very suspicious about witches and wizards ... they used to run around killing them, here and in the Colonies. They got some too. Seen Charity Malfoy, second to the left by the far door, next to the headless ferryman? Killed by Muggles in Salem."  
  
"I knew all about that," said Draco. "They teach us about that."  
  
"Probably it's a load of rubbish," said Temperance. "Far more likely they were supporting the King."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"The King's lot were very dashing, sophisticated. They fancied themselves, if you know what I mean. It was all floppy hats and velvety cloaks and duelling at dawn. More your cup of tea, I dare say."  
  
"It's true about the velvety cloaks," said Draco, who had several.  
  
"My point exactly," said Temperance. He snorted. "Well, young Draco. Nice talking to you. Behave yourself now."  
  
Draco nodded. "Yeah, I ... will," he said. He turned to leave. "By the way?" he said. "What does my Father talk about?"  
  
"Old loopy Lucius? He's got some bee in his bonnet about Harry Potter at the moment. Reckon the man's obsessed with him ... reckon he's 'one of those' if you know what I mean."  
  
"It would explain the jodhpurs," muttered Draco. "Thanks," he said.  
  
He left the gallery, and wandered off to find food.  
  
***********  
  
Harry was woken early by a tapping on his window. The sun was beginning to poke up over the tall poplars at the end of the garden, and the dewy lawn was bathed in dappled light. There was also a small grey owl on the windowsill, hopping up and down as if very agitated. Harry opened the window to let it in. Hedwig regarded the visitor with scorn.  
  
"Hello Pig," said Harry, clutching the little owl tight so that it wouldn't fly away. He undid the letter attached to its leg, and unrolled the piece of parchment. His heart lifted ... it was Ron's handwriting.  
  
'Dear Harry,  
  
Did you get the birthday presents? Mum's really worried about you, and I think Hermione is too. She wrote to me the other day asking if I'd heard anything. Please write back otherwise I'm going to get it in the neck. Mum also wants me to ask if you want to come and stay for the last couple of weeks. We can go and pick up our stuff from Diagon Alley, I've arranged to meet Hermione there on the 29th. Anyway, please let us know, and we'll fix a time to come and pick you up. We cleared it with Dumbledore so don't worry. Please write!!!  
  
Ron'  
  
Harry folded up the parchment. He would have written ... he would have written as soon as he got their presents, except he hadn't got them. He would write now, if only he hadn't been banned from trying to contact any of his friends after the chocolate cake incident. Uncle Vernon had been getting in the habit of checking Hedwig's cage every so often to make sure Harry hadn't been sending her off on errands, and although he had not witnessed it himself, he knew they had been going through his things. There were greasy marks all over his copy of 'Flying With The Cannons.'  
  
He heard footsteps outside. Quick as a flash, he stuffed Pigwidgeon under the covers, and hid the parchment ... then he closed his eyes and feigned sleep.  
  
The bedroom door creaked open.  
  
"Are you awake, boy?" Uncle Vernon's voice.  
  
Harry pretended to have been just waking up. He opened one eye, yawned and said. "What's up ... what time is it?"  
  
"Thought I heard noises," he grumbled. "Are you up to something?"  
  
"I was asleep!" groaned Harry. "It's only six o'clock."  
  
"If you're up to something," Uncle Vernon snarled. He left the room, though he didn't close the door completely. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Pigwidgeon was sitting on his stomach and kept pecking him.  
  
"Get off," squeaked Harry. He grabbed the owl, and sat it down on the windowsill, where it fluttered its wings. Then he unfolded the letter, and re-read it.  
  
"I'll have to use you to send a reply," Harry whispered, conscious that Uncle Vernon might still be prowling around outside. "I can't risk sending Hedwig."  
  
Hedwig gave him a look of what might have been pure hatred. Harry didn't notice. He grabbed a pen, and began looking round for a scrap of paper. When he couldn't find one, he tore one of the end pages out of his old copy of 'The Standard Book of Spells' and used that.  
  
'Dear Ron,' he wrote. He stopped, and sucked the end of his pen thoughtfully. Then he continued. "Thanks for the cake and stuff. I didn't get it because the Dursleys intercepted the package before I could get to it, but I know you sent it. Tell Hermione and your Mum not to worry. I'm fine - I've gone nearly two months without my scar hurting. I'd like to come and stay but I'm banned from practically everything at the minute and the Dursleys aren't budging. You might have to use underhand tactics ... i.e. this means get me out quick!!!! See you soon!'  
  
He signed his name.  
  
"Take this straight to Ron," he said to Pigwidgeon. The owl hooted with glee. "No stopping, not even for other, sexy owls," he fastened the letter to Pig's outstretched leg. "You're on a mission of mercy," he said. Pig, almost bursting with pride, took flight.  
  
************  
  
Another week had gone by. Harry had to assume that Pigwidgeon had managed to make it all the way back to Ottery St Catchpole, which was after all, a good day's flying away for an owl. He had still not heard anything though.  
  
It was the evening of the Dursleys' barbecue. Determined not to be outdone by her at Number Six, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had laid on a considerable spread, and by the amounts of food they had bought, seemed to have invited half the county. Harry had sneaked downstairs to steal a look in the fridge, and had been flabbergasted to find it stocked to overflowing with chickens, burgers, sausages, chops and ribs. It was a vegetarian's nightmare in there. Just looking at all the food had made him slightly less hungry, which was lucky, because he was now down to a couple of lettuce leaves a day, and was convinced he was becoming unhealthily underweight.  
  
To Harry's considerable astonishment, Uncle Vernon had come up to his room on the Saturday afternoon before the barbecue, and told him, in grudging tones that he would be allowed to attend. It transpired that a major client of Grunning's had been asking after him. Harry offered silent thanks to the client, whilst wondering quietly who it could possibly be. Uncle Vernon had told him to make himself presentable. He had tried in vain to run a comb through his hair, but it hurt too much to make any kind of effort. Then he had had to select his smartest clothes.  
  
This second task had presented Harry with some difficulty. His smartest clothes were his dress robes, but to have worn them would have invited punishment. Looking through his meagre wardrobe of Muggle clothes, he was dismayed to find he possessed nothing that could be deemed smart that wasn't his Hogwarts uniform. There were a couple of pairs of jeans, Dudley's cast offs, that he had used magic on so they didn't look so ridiculous on him, some shorts, several T-shirts, his woolly jumpers (four of them, each knitted by Mrs Weasley), his pyjamas and dressing gown, pants, socks and vests ... Harry was damned if he was going to turn up in his underwear though. Nothing that could be remotely described as smart. Reluctantly, he pulled on his least baggy pair of jeans, and a T-shirt. Then he surveyed himself in the mirror. "Face it, you're not built for Muggle socialising," he said. He adjusted his glasses.  
  
Guests were starting to arrive. Harry could hear cars, doors being slammed, happy conversation. Praying that the Polkiss family weren't going to turn up, he made his way downstairs.  
  
The hall was filled with people who Harry had either never seen, or never noticed before, not one of whom seemed to notice him. He squeezed through them, and went out into the garden, where Uncle Vernon was standing proudly behind his new barbecue, prodding the steaks with a spatula, and wearing a paper chef's hat.  
  
"There you are," he said, surveying Harry with scorn. "Is that the best you could do?"  
  
"I don't have any smart clothes," glowered Harry. "Nobody ever got me any."  
  
Uncle Vernon snarled at him. "Now see here ..."  
  
"Unless," said Harry. "You'd like me to wear my robes ... they're very smart," he added with feeling.  
  
"No, no, that won't be necessary," spluttered Uncle Vernon. "That'll have to do. I suppose we can at least be thankful you don't look like a complete vagabond ... which reminds me. What's your cover story?"  
  
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. "This is very demeaning, you know," he said.  
  
"You go to St Brutus' Institution for Incurably Criminal Boys ... and don't dare forget it. I'll expect you to set a good example."  
  
Harry sneered. "Whatever you say," he muttered, thinking it wouldn't half be fun to tell everybody he was really a wizard, just to see the look on his Uncle's face.  
  
"Now get serving."  
  
"What?" said Harry, in alarm.  
  
"Make yourself useful boy. Serve some drinks or something," Uncle Vernon returned to over-seasoning the steaks.  
  
Harry wandered off. People were starting to spill out into the garden, standing round the new swimming pool with looks of admiration on their faces, whilst small children swirled around their legs. Harry was about to go back inside when someone, Aunt Petunia, pushed a bowl of crisps into his hands.  
  
"Hand them round. Mind ... if you touch one of them, there'll be hell to pay."  
  
Harry nodded glumly, and went back out into the garden. Uncle Vernon was laughing along with several other very burly men, and Dudley seemed to be holding court with some of his friends. Harry ignored them, and offered round the crisps.  
  
"Thanks," said someone, taking a great handful. Harry was about to protest, when he looked up, and his jaw dropped.  
  
Fred put a finger to his mouth. "Don't say anything," he said. "We're gate crashing."  
  
"We thought we'd better rescue you," said George, sidling up on his other side.  
  
"And we might throw Ron in the pool, if you're lucky," said Fred.  
  
"Keep acting normal, and move towards the barbecue," said George. "I'll be right behind you."  
  
Harry nodded, wondering what they could possibly be planning. He suddenly felt very elated. He walked slowly over to the barbecue, George following closely behind.  
  
"What do you want?" Uncle Vernon glared at him.  
  
"I wanted you to meet George," said Harry. "He's a friend."  
  
George stuck out his hand, and shook Uncle Vernon's as if he had known him for years. "I'm one of Molly's kids," he said. "Remember?" Only Harry had noticed he was holding his wand behind his back.  
  
Uncle Vernon, who wasn't sure just who had been invited, assumed Molly must be some friend of Petunia's he'd not met before. "Nice to meet you, George."  
  
"You too. Harry's told me so much about you."  
  
Uncle Vernon paled. "Really? Flattering things, I hope?"  
  
"He can't praise you enough," said George. "Believe me!" he poked Harry in the back with his wand. "Play along," he hissed.  
  
Harry nodded. "Oh yes," he said. "Very flattering indeed."  
  
One of the men standing next to Uncle Vernon cracked a joke which Harry didn't hear. The others laughed anyway. So did George.  
  
"Come on, Harry," he said. "You must introduce me to your cousin."  
  
They sidled away. Vernon watched them go.  
  
"Seemed a pleasant boy," said one of the other men.  
  
"I've seen him somewhere before," said Vernon, suspiciously. "I just can't remember where."  
  
George ushered Harry over to the other side of the garden, out of eyeshot behind the gazebo.  
  
"What did you do?" asked Harry.  
  
"Ever heard of potato steaks?" asked George. "They look just like regular steaks ... but they're made entirely out of instant mashed potato."  
  
Harry shook his head ... then grinned.  
  
"Neither have they," said George, gesturing to Uncle Vernon. "Dare say some of those blokes will be rather surprised come dinner time."  
  
Harry grinned even more. "What's going on?" he asked. "Why are you here."  
  
"Thought that was obvious," said George, taking another handful of crisps. "Someone needs rescuing."  
  
"So where's everyone else?" asked Harry.  
  
"Mum didn't want to come," said George. "Ron and Dad are upstairs packing your stuff."  
  
"Then what? How did you get here?"  
  
"By car," said George. "Dad didn't want to risk Floo Powder again ... not after last time."  
  
"Sensible," said Harry. He spotted Aunt Petunia standing on the patio, anxiously scanning the crowd for him. "Gotta go," he said, and darted off.  
  
He hadn't gone far when he was waylaid by Dudley and Piers Polkiss. Piers had had his growth spurt since Harry had last seen him, and was now a good foot taller than he was.  
  
"Hello, Harry," said Piers. "Long time no see."  
  
"You too," scowled Harry. Piers, on the other hand, had put what seemed like a friendly hand on Harry's shoulder.  
  
"How's life been treating you?" sneered Piers. Dudley was covering his mouth in an effort not to laugh.  
  
"Not badly," said Harry, matter of factly. "I'm already a black belt in karate, and next term they let us start with the nun-chucks. And we get to do the three R's too ... that's rabbiting, rioting, and ram-raiding."  
  
"You always were a pathetic liar," said Piers. "Bet you've never even been in a proper fight."  
  
"Oh, I have," squeaked Harry. "You probably wouldn't want to know about it though. It was horrible ... took them weeks to get the blood out of the walls."  
  
"Yeah, your blood," sniggered Piers.  
  
"No, the boy I killed," said Harry. "They don't call it an institution for incurably criminal boys for nothing you know."  
  
Piers started to look doubtful. He turned to Dudley. Dudley grinned. "He's lying," he said.  
  
Piers put his hand back on Harry's shoulder. "I know you're pulling my leg," he said. "You couldn't go two rounds with a bunny rabbit."  
  
"Something the matter?" asked a voice. It was Fred and George.  
  
"Nothing at all," said Piers, sizing up the other boys. He sneered. "Nice haircut," he added.  
  
"All the rage at St Brutus'," said Fred.  
  
"We're friends of Harry's," said George. "Are the bigger boys bothering you, Harry?"  
  
Piers sneered even more. "What's it to you?"  
  
"We don't like people who bother our Harry. Seems like we're rather attached to him," said Fred. "We don't much care for people who don't share our point of view."  
  
"If you catch our drift," said George.  
  
"So you go to this St Brutus' place too?" asked Piers, withdrawing his hand hurriedly from Harry's shoulder.  
  
Fred and George both nodded. Fred said, "Only as we're a couple of years above Harry, we're slightly more criminally able. I do advanced garrotting, and George here can strip a Kalashnikov rifle in twenty two seconds."  
  
"So you see, you really don't want to make us angry," said George, folding his arms.  
  
"Oh no, we stick together, us incurably criminal boys," said Fred.  
  
"That's okay," said Piers. "We were just passing the time of day. I was just saying how nice it was to see Harry again after all these years."  
  
Dudley, on the other hand, appeared to be having some sort of seizure.  
  
"It's you," he stuttered.  
  
Fred and George smiled at each other. "Yes, it's us," George said. "How are you doing, pig boy?"  
  
Dudley had gone very pale indeed. "How did you get here?" he asked. "Who let you in?"  
  
"Oh, we did," said Fred, producing his wand. George did the same. Dudley squeaked in fright.  
  
"What do you reckon?" asked George.  
  
"Maybe we could use jelly legs," said Fred. Dudley was quaking with fear, Piers had gone white ... the whole scene was very funny.  
  
George shook his head. "Nah," he said. He levelled his wand at Piers, and Fred levelled his at Dudley.  
  
"Goodbye, boys. Nice meeting you," said Fred.  
  
Before either of them could react, Fred and George had jumped forwards, and pushed both of them backwards. Piers lost his footing, stumbled, and fell into the pool. Dudley teetered on the edge for a brief second, looking for all the world like a ballerina, and then, with an almighty splash, had joined his friend, and transferred most of the water onto Fred, George and Harry in the process.  
  
Aunt Petunia screamed. The entire party seemed to have stopped. Everyone present was staring in their direction.  
  
"Harry!" Uncle Vernon roared. "What in blazes have you done now?"  
  
Aunt Petunia rushed forwards, wailing. "Dudley, Dudley darling, get out, you'll catch your death!"  
  
Harry looked from Fred, to George, and then to Uncle Vernon, who was advancing on the three of them with the look of an enraged rhino on his face.  
  
"Leg it," said Fred.  
  
************  
  
Ron and Mr Weasley were just putting Harry's trunk in the boot of a borrowed Ministry car as Harry, Fred and George came sprinting round the side of the house.  
  
"Get in!" yelled Fred. "I think we might be in trouble."  
  
A wide grin spread across Ron's face. He closed the boot hurriedly, and jumped in. He could hear roars of anger in the distance. Mr Weasley dashed round to the driver's door, looking very flustered.  
  
"I don't believe I wish to know what you've been up to," he said, as Fred and George flung themselves into the car, followed closely by Harry, who looked very out of breath. George reached over him to pull the car door shut, just as Uncle Vernon rounded the corner of the house. Aunt Petunia and a dripping wet Dudley were in hot pursuit.  
  
"Dear, oh dear, we'd better get out of here," mumbled Mr Weasley, fumbling with the keys. He started the engine, and put the car in gear.  
  
Harry waved out of the back window as they drove off down Privet Drive, leaving the Dursleys standing, livid in the middle of the road, waving their fists angrily.  
  
"Be seeing you!" he shouted. "God bless!"  
  
He turned to Ron, who was smiling broadly at him.  
  
"All right?" he asked.  
  
Ron nodded. "Good to see you, mate," he said, huskily.  
  
"You have no idea," breathed Harry, settling back in his seat. "Anybody got some food? I could eat a horse!"  



	2. Preparations

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
DISCLAIMER  
  
Most of the recognisable characters, concepts and locations belong entirely to J.K. Rowling and other production companies. I don't assume or imply rights over any of it.  
  
PART TWO. PREPARATIONS.  
  
Mrs Weasley was angry. Harry could hear her shouts floating up the stairs to Ron's attic bedroom. By the sounds of things, Fred and George were both in for a rude awakening.  
  
Harry stretched, rolled over onto his back, and stared out of the window. The weather looked reliably set for the day. He checked his watch. Nine o'clock. Normally by this time he would have been up for at least two hours. It was nice to be able to have a lie in.  
  
He looked over to where Ron was sleeping, only to find that he had disappeared. Evidently the Weasleys had taken to rising early. Harry, however snuggled back down under his quilt. There were birds singing outside.  
  
"Harry, are you awake yet?" Mrs Weasley rapped on the door. "You'll miss breakfast."  
  
It dawned on Harry that he was famished. "I'll be down in a minute," he called. He climbed out of bed ... he had just had his best night's sleep for ages, his bed back at Privet Drive was lumpy and had springs in awkward places, so the Weasleys' bouncy mattresses were a great relief. He pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas, and went downstairs.  
  
There were voices coming from the kitchen. One of them Ron's, one Mrs Weasley's. Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, and poked his head round the door.  
  
"Morning, dear," Mrs Weasley said, as he slipped into the room. She was cracking eggs over a very large frying pan. "I thought you could do with a fry up."  
  
Harry licked his lips. "That would be lovely," he said. "Thanks."  
  
"You need fattening up," said Mrs Weasley. "What do your Aunt and Uncle feed you?"  
  
"Not much," said Harry, taking a seat next to Ron, who was sipping from a very large mug of tea.  
  
Mrs Weasley went on. "You missed Arthur ... he went off to work about an hour ago, Fred and George aren't up yet, though goodness knows I've been shouting up those stairs for twenty minutes."  
  
"I know, I heard," glowered Ron.  
  
"Where's Ginny?" asked Harry. Ron gave him a funny look.  
  
"She's staying over with a friend," said Mrs Weasley. "Do you want a fried tomato too?"  
  
"Please," said Harry.  
  
"Why are you so interested in Ginny all of a sudden?" asked Ron, suspiciously.  
  
"No particular reason," said Harry.  
  
Ron shrugged. "Whatever ... just remember she's my sister, Harry."  
  
Harry was somewhat taken aback. He had, after all, only been asking after her. It wasn't as if he'd just stood up on the table and proposed. Ron, however, seemed reluctant to say anything further on the matter.  
  
"What have I missed?" asked Harry, changing the subject hurriedly.  
  
"It's been very quiet really," said Mrs Weasley. "Black pudding?"  
  
"No thanks," said Harry. "How d'you mean, very quiet?"  
  
"Not a lot's been happening," said Ron. "The Prophet has gone very quiet just lately."  
  
"Can't imagine why that would be," said Harry, smirking.  
  
"Yes," said Mrs Weasley. "They're beginning to say that that Skeeter woman has vanished ... off the face of the earth. Nobody's heard hide nor hair of her since after the Tournament," she stopped herself. Harry, fortunately, didn't seem to have noticed, or if he had done, wasn't showing it. Mrs Weasley was still uncertain just how much the events of the last few weeks of term had affected Harry, and how much he was still suffering the effects of his latest encounter with Voldemort. She had spent a long time the other day instructing her family on how to behave around him.  
  
Harry, however, was smiling. "Vanished, you say?"  
  
"Completely!" said Ron, also smiling. "Can't imagine where she's got to! A real mystery eh, Mum?"  
  
Mrs Weasley nodded uncertainly. "Yes," she said, with genuine feeling "a real mystery. I wonder where she is."  
  
"Might have to ask Hermione that," said Harry, under his breath. Ron stifled a giggle. Mrs Weasley didn't seem to have noticed. She was scraping their fried eggs off the bottom of the pan.  
  
"Anyway," said Mrs Weasley, setting down two plates groaning with greasy, fried food in front of both of them. "Like I said. Not much has been going on ... it's all gone ominously quiet. They say Snape has disappeared too."  
  
Harry and Ron looked at each other, and grinned even more.  
  
"And Hagrid won't be back for the start of the year," Mrs Weasley went on. Harry nearly choked on his sausage.  
  
"What?"  
  
"He's somewhere in the Carpathians," said Mrs Weasley. "Dumbledore sent him there after school finished. Of course he won't tell us what he's up to."  
  
"You've heard from Dumbledore?"  
  
"He's been in contact with Arthur practically every day," said Mrs Weasley.  
  
"What about Sirius?"  
  
Mrs Weasley shrugged. "I don't know where he went," she said. "Dumbledore is keeping his cards very close to his chest at the minute, it's hard to know who to trust. Sirius is safe ... you'd be the first to know if something had happened to him."  
  
"That explains why he didn't get in touch with me," said Harry, glumly.  
  
"I'm sorry everyone's been ignoring you Harry," said Mrs Weasley. "It's just, as things are getting so difficult at the minute ... or at least, they're about to. We're all running around like headless chickens ... and as long as you're at the Dursleys', well, nothing can touch you there, as you know."  
  
"Why is that?" asked Harry. "Nobody ever explained it to me."  
  
"I'm not entirely sure myself," said Mrs Weasley. "Some sort of magic, I expect."  
  
Ron gave a snort of derision. He turned to Harry. "Fancy a spot of Quidditch practice?"  
  
"All right," said Harry, pouring more ketchup onto his plate.  
  
"After breakfast, Mum? Is it okay if we go down to the meadow?" asked Ron.  
  
Mrs Weasley glanced out of the window, as if expecting to see Lord Voldemort and the massed Armies of the Night encamped in her back garden. "It looks safe enough," she said. "But take sun block, and come straight home if anything unusual happens. I want Harry where I can keep an eye on him."  
  
Ron sighed. "We can take Fred and George," he said to Harry.  
  
"Fred and George are staying in to de-gnome the garden," said Mrs Weasley, waving her wand at a pile of dirty dishes. "Somebody got themselves into trouble last night."  
  
Harry felt slightly guilty. "That was my fault really," he said. "Perhaps I should..."  
  
Both Ron and Mrs Weasley were shaking their heads at him, though for different reasons. "You don't need to worry Harry," said Mrs Weasley, bluntly. "They get themselves in trouble, they can get themselves out of it," she didn't seem at all fazed by the fact that Fred and George were now both well over six feet tall, and she barely came up to their shoulders.  
  
"It's no fun with two," moaned Ron.  
  
"Then you can always stay home and help me clean up," said Mrs Weasley. "God knows the place needs some elbow grease."  
  
"We'll go play Quidditch then," said Ron. "Where's your broom?"  
  
"'allaling 'ase," said Harry. He swallowed. "Sorry ... upstairs, in its travelling case," he had not had much of an opportunity to play over the past year, and was hoping the Firebolt wouldn't need servicing.  
  
"You'll be a bit rusty, won't you?" said Ron, looking hopeful.  
  
"Haven't played for ages," said Harry.  
  
"Good ... I might be able to beat you," said Ron. "Might *even* try out for the team this year. There're two places begging now Angelina and Oliver have left."  
  
***********  
  
The next few days at the Weasleys' passed in somewhat of a blur for Harry. Most of the days were spent playing Quidditch in the meadow with Ron, Fred, George, and, when she could be bothered, Ginny too. Then there were long, hot afternoons when nobody felt like doing much, water fights in the garden (Fred and George seemed to excel at this), and long, whispered conversations under the bedclothes when everybody else had gone to sleep. Harry found himself happier than he had been in a long time. Mr Weasley even found time to take a couple of days off work, and they went down to Torbay to spend the afternoon on the beach, which was a novel experience for Harry.  
  
Harry's last beach holiday had been when he was nine, when the Dursleys had reluctantly taken Harry with them for a day at Bournemouth ... it had not been a pleasant experience. He had got sunburned, there had been sand in the picnic, his ice cream had melted, and Dudley had shoved a live crab down his swimming trunks.  
  
This time, very little untoward happened ... there was sand in the picnic, his ice cream melted, Ginny cut her foot on a razor shell, Fred and George tried to put crabs in funny places, Muggles kept staring at Mr and Mrs Weasley, who insisted on wearing robes to go paddling in, and both Harry and Ron got sunburned all down their backs. However, this time the Dursleys weren't there, so Harry came back very happy indeed, if unable to lie down because of the pain.  
  
On August 29th, the day they were to go to Diagon Alley to stock up for school, the heat wave finally broke, and the heavens opened. Mr Weasley, who had managed to wrangle another day off work to take them, stood at the kitchen window, regarding the downpour with something approaching pleasure.  
  
"This is the kind of weather I remember from when I was a lad," he reminisced as they pulled on their shoes and coats. "There was none of this baking sunshine. It was rain, rain, and more rain. Then suddenly, the day after we went back to school, it got sunny again."  
  
Ron showed Harry his list, as his hadn't arrived at Privet Drive. Harry was rather alarmed to notice that the fifth year book list ran to nearly two sheets of paper, and included some very dull titles. He suspected that Hermione had probably read all of them already. Some of the Defence Against the Dark Arts books looked particularly gruesome. Harry wondered who the new teacher might be.  
  
***********  
  
It had been raining hard in London too, and little streams of water were flowing down the gutters of Diagon Alley, bearing with them innumerable bits of litter. They paid a visit to Gringott's, and then to Madame Malkin's. Ron had had new (second hand) robes the previous Autumn, but had grown so much in the interim that more were necessary. While he waited, looking embarrassed and out of place amongst all the First Years, Harry slipped off to get their books.  
  
Flourish and Blott's was crowded with people, most of them adults, who seemed to be using the place as a private reading room. Harry duly presented Ron's list to the witch behind the counter.  
  
"You'll find it all upstairs, I'd help you, but I'm rushed off my feet today," she said. "Hogwarts is it?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Don't know what they teach you at these schools," she grumbled. Harry murmured his thanks, and left quietly.  
  
Harry had never been up to the first floor of the book shop before. It was reached up a flight of dusty steps, tucked away at the back of the shop, and so steep it might have been a ladder. The room that he found up there was lined with bookshelves, and crammed with every tome imaginable. The bare floorboards creaked under Harry's trainers. A flickering candle chandelier provided the only light. There was one other person up there ... a tall boy who looked about Harry's age, wearing expensive looking robes and flicking through one of the books with an air of great interest on his face. He turned round at the sound of Harry's footsteps.  
  
"Oh, hello, Potter," said Draco, scowling at him.  
  
"What do you want?" snarled Harry.  
  
Draco replaced the book on its shelf. "Same thing as you ... I'd imagine," he said.  
  
Harry eyed him suspiciously.  
  
"Books?" said Draco. "Paper things with covers, your little Mudblood friend likes them. Can't see the attraction myself."  
  
Harry picked up a copy of 'The Grimoire of Instant & Painful Death,' then hurriedly put it down again.  
  
"That one's on our list," said Draco. Harry picked up the book again ... it seemed to radiate an aura of raw menace.  
  
"You sure?" asked Harry, who was now, by nature very wary of magical objects. This particular book looked vicious.  
  
Draco nodded. "Did you actually read your list, Potter? Or were you just hoping some kind hearted soul ... like little old me, would help you out?"  
  
"Never got a list," mumbled Harry. "Ron only showed it to me this morning."  
  
"Oh, is Muggle loving Weasel boy here too?" asked Draco. "Grown much this summer has he? They'd need to take the ceiling down if he wanted to come up here."  
  
"Shut up, Malfoy," said Harry. "I see you've hit the bleach hard again this summer," he retorted. Draco looked very offended.  
  
"This is ... I'm a natural blond thank you very much," hissed Draco. "My hair is a part of me."  
  
"That's what they all say," said Harry.  
  
"Who?" snapped Draco.  
  
"The ones who spend ages in front of mirrors, preening themselves," taunted Harry.  
  
"What are you insinuating? You looked in a mirror lately?"  
  
He could hear footsteps on the staircase, but he ignored them, and scowled at Draco all the more.  
  
"You can't out ad lib me," said Draco, snidely. "I'm a professional."  
  
"Professional what?" asked Harry.  
  
Draco looked slightly stumped. "Professional ... just a professional, thank you. I don't have to take this from you. I'm a law abiding citizen!"  
  
"What's going on up here?" someone asked. Harry turned to see Ron's head poking up through the hole in the floor. "Who else is up here?"  
  
"Welcome to our party," drawled Draco. "Potter here was just insinuating I do not prefer the company of the fairer sex."  
  
"You what?" said Ron, looking confused.  
  
"Whereas you boys, I imagine, have a perfectly wholesome platonic relationship," Draco went on.  
  
"What's he on about?" Ron turned to Harry. "Have you found the books?"  
  
"I was just going to," said Harry. "*Malfoy* here was in my way."  
  
"Well excuse me," said Draco, stepping sideways to let him past. "Didn't realise you had business up here ... thought you were just insulting random customers!" he gathered up a handful of books, and shoved past Ron. "I wouldn't bother asking for credit, Weasel boy," he hissed. "A smack in the gob often offends," he turned back to Harry. "Has anyone ever told you your nose is peeling?"  
  
"Silly arse," said Ron, as Draco disappeared from view, still clutching his books. Harry noticed he was carrying a large paper bag.  
  
"Did you get your new robes?" he asked.  
  
"First ever," Ron beamed, opening the bag to show him. "Think I might finally be getting them to spend some money on me."  
  
************  
  
Draco stormed out of the shop in a huff, holding his books in a paper bag. It was raining even harder now, and the servant he had left outside with his brolly had disappeared. Draco pulled the hood on his cloak over his head, and headed off in the direction of Gringott's. Fred and George Weasley were just coming out of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they had just spent twenty minutes staring at the new Mark 2 Firebolt. Draco almost sent them flying.  
  
"What do you suppose that was?" asked Fred, as Draco headed away.  
  
"Never disturb a Malfoy in a hurry. They have a tendency to go off. Much like land mines," said George.  
  
Lucius Malfoy had reserved a table in Diagon Alley's most exclusive restaurant, and he was sitting there now, staring out of the rain lashed windows, looking for Draco. He considered it beneath him to scrabble around with the common crowd in some ghastly little book shop, which was why he usually sent Draco off to do his shopping on his own. He folded his copy of the Daily Prophet when he saw Draco heading along the street towards him, head bowed, weighed down with large packages.  
  
"I'll take a bottle of the house red," he said to the waiter, who was standing over him. "Is it good today?"  
  
"Castello Rosso 1988. It is particularly fine. Shall I bring one glass?"  
  
"Bring two," said Lucius. "Also a bottle of mineral water ... still, and you'd better let me see the lunch menu."  
  
"Right away, Monsieur," the waiter hurried off into the distance.  
  
"Hello, Father," said Draco, sitting down.  
  
"Draco. Have we passed a pleasant morning?"  
  
"Not bad," said Draco. "Father, I met someone in..."  
  
Lucius wasn't listening. "I thought we might start with the asparagus in mushroom sauce, followed by the truites jurassienne, which look especially piquant today. What say you Draco?"  
  
"Fine, whatever," said Draco, slightly flustered. "You'll never guess who I just met."  
  
The waiter brought over the wine, and two elegant crystal glasses. "Will the young man be drinking too?" he asked, surveying Draco. Lucius nodded. The waiter poured a little of the wine into his glass, and he sipped it.  
  
"It's excellent," he said. "Draco, you should learn to appreciate a fine vintage."  
  
"I'd rather not," said Draco. "It makes me feel sick."  
  
Lucius narrowed his eyes at his son. "I said, you should learn to appreciate a fine vintage," he said, firmly. He turned to the waiter, who was hesitating. "Yes, yes, fill it up," he said, impatiently. The waiter did so.  
  
"Father, I just bumped into Potter, in Flourish and Blott's."  
  
Lucius raised his eyebrows slightly. "Did we, now?"  
  
"He had the most awful sunburn," said Draco.  
  
"Ah, sunburn ... the mark of the low and vulgar," chuckled Lucius. "I would expect little else from one so wretched. You amuse me, Draco. Continue."  
  
"Anyway, he tried to have a go at me," said Draco.  
  
"And did we fight back? Did we acquit ourselves well?"  
  
Draco tried sipping his wine, but it tasted bitter and horrible. He screwed up his face. "We ... I did, I think."  
  
The waiter handed them both menus.  
  
"Thank you," said Draco. Lucius scowled at him.  
  
"One never thanks the waiter for one's menu, Draco," he said.  
  
"I'll remember that," said Draco. People were hurrying past on the pavement outside. One elderly witch was carrying a large pot plant. Draco suddenly remembered what he had been intending to ask his Father. "By the way," he went on. "Those little plants you showed me at the start of the holidays."  
  
"The dragon trees? What about them?"  
  
"I was just wondering how they were getting on," said Draco.  
  
"Osgoode has tended them beyond even his meagre horticultural abilities. They are ready for harvesting now," said Lucius. "Soon they shall be delivered to our master."  
  
"Your master," said Draco, trying the wine again.  
  
"Soon he will be our master," said Lucius. "I have a little surprise planned for you, Draco."  
  
"A nice surprise?" Draco asked, with trepidation.  
  
"The very best," said Lucius. The waiter had appeared at their table again. "Ah, yes," Lucius consulted the menu. "I'll have my usual, the asparagus, followed by truites jurassienne."  
  
"I'm afraid the asparagus is out of season, Monsieur," said the waiter. "We have some very good feta salad if you'd care to?"  
  
"Very bad form," tutted Lucius. "I thought you imported it from New Zealand."  
  
"We do, this month's delivery is a bit late. I'm very sorry about that, Monsieur."  
  
"Very well. I'll try the salad."  
  
"It comes with roquette lettuce, Parma ham and watermelon. You said the rainbow trout for your main course?"  
  
Lucius nodded. "Indeed I did."  
  
"And for young Monsieur here?"  
  
Draco picked something random. "Consommé," he said, "and steak to follow ... medium rare."  
  
"Would you like chipped, mashed or boiled potato with that?"  
  
"Chips," said Draco. "Thanks," he added, much to Lucius' disappointment. The waiter disappeared again. Draco went on. "You were saying, Father? About a surprise?"  
  
"I have great plans for you, Draco," said Lucius, smiling mysteriously. "I would be most pleased to be able to exploit your talents."  
  
"Go on," said Draco, who was interested. Very few people ever bothered to tell him he had any talent, except for Snape ... and even Draco knew that was only out of favouritism. How else could he have got forty six per cent in his potions exam, and still be graded an A? "I'm ready," he said.  
  
"I haven't told you what you have to do yet, stupid boy," said Lucius.  
  
"I mean I'm ready for whatever it is you want me to do."  
  
Lucius coughed, then scanned the restaurant. "It should be safe to talk freely," he said. "You are aware, of course, that Lord Voldemort planted a mole at Hogwarts last year?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Who was he?" he asked. Lucius appeared surprised that Draco didn't already know.  
  
"Alastor Moody," he said. "Or rather, a Death Eater disguised as Moody ... using Polyjuice Potion, of course."  
  
"But Moody was horrible," said Draco. "How could he have be..."  
  
Lucius silenced him with a wave of his hand. "For heaven's sake boy ... use the meagre brains God gave you. He was undercover ... he had to give the appearance of being on Potter's side, so as to avoid arousing suspicion."  
  
"But he turned me into..."  
  
"Quiet, Draco. All I have to say on that matter is that you were *lucky* to get away with a reprimand. If I had been there you would have been punished severely. Malfoys fight with civility, not with sneakiness. If I wanted my son to be remembered as a nasty little snake, I'd have put him in glasses and called him Harry Potter."  
  
"Quite," said Draco, looking slightly defeated, which of course he was.  
  
"I digress, Draco, such events are in the past. This fake Moody was found out ... and is no longer with us."  
  
"What happened?" asked Draco.  
  
"Fudge allowed the Dementors to perform the kiss on him," said Lucius. "He was the last surviving heir of a very influential Pureblood family."  
  
Draco paled slightly. "You wouldn't put me to that risk?" he whispered ... though he saw from the expression on his Father's face that whether or not Draco got kissed was the least of his worries.  
  
"If such an event were to transpire," said Lucius, toying with his napkin. "It would signal to me merely that you were unfit to carry out the task. However ... this will not happen ... Malfoys do not know the meaning of the word failure."  
  
"Yes we do," said Draco. "It means; lack of success."  
  
Lucius scowled at him. "Don't cheek me, Draco," he warned. "I am growing tired of your childish ways. I suggest you act your age if you are to stand any chance of success."  
  
"I am acting my age, Father," said Draco, returning the scowl with equal ferocity. "I'm fifteen ... this is how I act."  
  
"I am rapidly becoming vexed with you, Draco. Much more of your insolence and I shall see to it that you are punished when we return home. Understood?"  
  
"Yes," said Draco, sulkily.  
  
Lucius smiled. "Very good. Now we can talk like the civilised men we are. Lord Voldemort was, naturally very disappointed when his great plan did not come to fruition ... after *so* much effort too. Potter escaped, as we all know, and Voldemort was forced to flee the country once more."  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. "What does he want with me though?"  
  
"Voldemort wants nothing with you, for the moment. I however ... well, I would have thought that was elementary, my dear Draco ... I want another mole ... and I want it to be somebody that no one would ever suspect. That is to say ... you."  
  
"Why do you want him?"  
  
"For the same reason I want the dragon trees, Draco. Control ... influence. All these are things any ambitious man must seek if he is to succeed. Thus my influence over Lord Voldemort will be increased a thousand-fold," the faintest grin was playing around Lucius' features. "You are to bring Potter to me ... I imagine it will be easy. From what I hear the boy has an insatiable curiosity and will trust anybody. You are to gain his trust, Draco."  
  
"But."  
  
"I repeat; you are to gain his trust," said Lucius, through gritted teeth. "Which part of that don't you understand?"  
  
"But I hate him. He hates me. He barely even talks to me."  
  
"Then you must rectify the situation, Draco. Exactly how you go about this is, of course, up to you."  
  
"I'm no tactician, Father," protested Draco.  
  
"Then you must learn," said Lucius. "I believe there are some excellent books on the subject in circulation. Books on how to win people over ... to draw them into your sphere of influence ... to make them think they are your friends. You must read them, Draco."  
  
"Tell me where to find them."  
  
Lucius shrugged. "That is something you must discover for yourself," he said. "I ... unlike yourself, am possessed of a charm so immense the words have not been coined to describe it. I have no need of such volumes."  
  
***********  
  
Ron and Harry met up with Hermione for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. She had taken a small table in the corner, and was sipping a glass of lemonade when they came in. They were both wet and bedraggled, their hair plastered to their heads. She waved to them across the crowded pub, and they picked their way over.  
  
"You not here with your Dad?" asked Hermione.  
  
Ron nodded. "He had to go and get a new broomstick," he explained. "He said he'd be some time."  
  
Hermione shrugged. "Fair enough," she said. "You look wet," she added.  
  
"Yeah, well spotted," said Ron. He pulled off his dripping coat, and slung it over the back of his chair. Harry did the same.  
  
"You have a burned nose, by the way," said Hermione, as Harry sat down.  
  
"Thanks," said Harry. "Not did you have a good holiday, Harry? Yeah, thanks, not bad, Hermione, how was yours? Oh, I had a lovely time. Just, oh, Harry, you've got sunburn."  
  
Hermione turned to Ron. "What's got into him?" she asked.  
  
"He met Malfoy in the book shop," explained Ron. "I think he's a bit angry about it."  
  
"It explains a lot," said Hermione. "How was your holiday then, Harry?"  
  
"It was rubbish," said Harry. "Up until about two weeks ago," he added, catching the expression on Ron's face.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that," said Hermione the diplomat. "Was it that bad?"  
  
"I spent my holiday re-painting an entire house, putting tiles up, changing light bulbs in very small, dark places, hammering things, and cutting Dudley's nails," said Harry. "Yes, it was that bad."  
  
Hermione was just beginning to think that maybe Harry had gone off her or something. "You had a good time at Ron's, didn't you?" she asked, trying to jumpstart the conversation. She had never known either of them to be so awkward ... it wasn't as though it was very long since she'd seen them. She decided it probably had something to do with hormones ... she had recently noticed that sex education was not on the syllabus at Hogwarts, so had done some reading behind the subject, and was planning on petitioning Dumbledore.  
  
"It was okay," said Harry. Ron leaned over to Hermione.  
  
"He's a bit pissed off that you didn't send him a postcard," he said.  
  
"I did," whispered Hermione. "Did you not get my postcard, Harry?" she asked, turning to her other friend.  
  
Harry shook his head. "You did send one ... you're not just trying to make me feel better?" he said, brightening visibly.  
  
Hermione nodded. "Course I did," she said. "It was a picture of the sun setting over the Acropolis."  
  
"Who's Thea Cropolis?" asked Ron.  
  
"It's an Ancient Greek temple in Ath..." began Hermione, before noticing that Ron looked completely nonplussed. She decided to go for simplicity. "It's a famous ruin," she said.  
  
"Like Professor Trelawney?" asked Ron.  
  
Hermione gave him a funny look. "Yeah," she said. "That's ... right."  
  
"She must be really big, this Thea Cropolis ... if you can get a photo of the sun setting over her," mused Ron. "Is she related to Hagrid?"  
  
They both glared at Ron. Harry turned back to Hermione. "What did you write on it?" he asked.  
  
"Hell, I can't remember," said Hermione. "A load of stuff about how nice it was, and I put 'wish you were here' too."  
  
"I never got it," said Harry.  
  
"He didn't get our birthday presents either," said Ron. Hermione looked slightly shocked.  
  
"Not even the thingie?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I nearly got a cake," he said. "The Dursleys got to it before me."  
  
"But I sent a ... oh," said Hermione. "That's five galleons I won't see again in a hurry."  
  
This made Harry feel quite guilty. "I'll pay you back," he said. "As I didn't get it ... it's only fair."  
  
Hermione, however, wouldn't hear of it. "I don't want you to pay me back, Harry," she said. "You would have liked it though."  
  
Harry smiled, despite his mood. "I expect I would have done," he said.  
  
"You'll soon be back at school though," said Hermione. "Look at it that way. It's a whole year before you have to go through the summer holidays again."  
  
Ron looked scandalised. "Am I the only one here who doesn't want to go back to school?" he asked. He looked up ... Hermione and Harry were both nodding at him.  
  
"We both had a ghastly time," said Hermione.  
  
"I thought you had fun in Greece," said Ron.  
  
Hermione shook her head. "That was just to get my parents off my back," she said. "It was very, very boring ... they dragged me round monuments like there was no tomorrow. We didn't even go to the beach."  
  
Harry, surprised at this, as he thought Hermione looked very tanned, said. "So you weren't enjoying yourself?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "It was dull beyond belief," she said. "I mean, give a girl a break ... I get quite enough education at Hogwarts without having it crammed down my throat in between times."  
  
"You said, 'wish you were here,'" said Harry.  
  
"I *did*," said Hermione, with feeling. "It might have been slightly less boring if they'd let me take a friend. Anyway ... what do you two want for lunch?"  
  
************  
  
They arrived back at the Burrow quite late in the evening. Mrs Weasley had evidently spent the entire day cleaning the house, for it was spotless. Harry and Ron took their packages straight up to Ron's bedroom, whilst Fred and George disappeared down the garden.  
  
"Hermione looked well, didn't she," said Harry, as he packed his new books into his school trunk. Ron was trying, without success, to fold his new robes.  
  
"What's got into her, though?" asked Ron. "She seemed really out of sorts."  
  
"It's not like her to find anything boring," agreed Harry. "Perhaps it's something to do with hormones."  
  
"What are..."  
  
"Never mind," said Harry, firmly.  
  
"She's grown though," said Ron.  
  
Harry nodded. "I'm the shortest in our year now," he said.  
  
"You always were," said Ron. "I wouldn't worry about it mate. It means you can get into small spaces."  
  
"Comes to something when Colin Creevey gets taller than me," said Harry, miserably. He was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to start growing. "It's probably down to diet."  
  
"How d'you mean?" asked Ron.  
  
"Well, Colin's Dad's a milkman, right?"  
  
"I think so," said Ron.  
  
"So he gets lots of milk ... right?"  
  
Ron nodded. "Sure, I guess so."  
  
"There you go then," Ron looked puzzled, but Harry didn't pick up on that. "My family are a bunch of mean old gits whose definition of feeding me is to throw me a lettuce leaf round about dinnertime," said Harry.  
  
"I see what you mean," lied Ron. He picked up one of his books. "Did you get this one?" he asked, holding up a copy of 'Advanced Transfiguration. Processes and Practices.'  
  
Harry nodded. "Looks dull," he said.  
  
"Yup," said Ron, flicking through it. "Dull as dishwater. Page thirty-five ... listen ... 'although the reader might view this as a digression, I believe it would be irresponsible of this author not to draw the reader's attention to the indisputable fact that the work of Helmut Freidrickssen-Wolfe, the noted Norwegian wizard has indubitably contributed to the growing interest within the magical community, surrounding the concentration of magical particles around the object in the event of transfiguration. Such particles, which Wolfe has dubbed,'" Ron paused for breath. "Really grabs at your attention span, don't it."  
  
"I don't have an attention span," said Harry. "I think I lost it somewhere," he flopped down on his bed, and listened to the drumming of the rain on the roof above.  
  
Ron followed his gaze. "It *might* start leaking," he said, correctly anticipating Harry's next question. "It once gave way when I was asleep, but that wasn't during a storm."  
  
"What happened?" asked Harry, sitting up.  
  
"Two words ... Fred ... George," said Ron.  
  
"That was four words," said Fred. Ron whirled round ... neither of them had noticed that Fred and George had just appeared in the door, both looking very wet.  
  
"What are you doing up here?" asked Ron.  
  
"We came to say hello to our ickle brother," said Fred.  
  
"I remember it well," said George, stepping into the room. "How we laughed!" He prodded the ceiling.  
  
"That looks dangerous, Ronnie," said Fred. "One sharp push, and the whole lot would give way."  
  
"And you'd kill both of us, and then Mum would kill you," said Ron. "You see? Sleeping with Harry Potter has its advantages."  
  
All three of them stared, horrified at Ron, who had gone bright red.  
  
"Harry, you never told us," said George. "When's the wedding? Can I be a page boy?"  
  
"Is he any good in bed?" asked Fred. A pillow hit him on the side of the head.  
  
"Shove off!" yelled Ron.  
  
George, meanwhile, had sat down on the edge of Harry's bed. "But we don't feel like leaving yet," he said. "We need to arrange blackmailing terms."  
  
Fred closed the door. "Seems to me like ickle Ronnie-kins can't keep his tongue under control ... in more ways than one," he added.  
  
"Seems to me like ickle Ronnie-kins wouldn't like his slip of the tongue broadcast around Hogwarts for all to hear."  
  
Ron turned to Harry, and gave him a pleading look. Harry was unsure whose position to adopt, so he said nothing.  
  
"What do you want?" asked Ron, with great reluctance.  
  
"You will be our guinea pig," said Fred.  
  
"What do you mean, guinea pig?" asked Ron.  
  
George explained. "We've been very busy in our little shed this summer ... right, Fred?"  
  
Fred nodded.  
  
"And we've created some rather splendiferous new gags," George went on. "Problem is ... we can't find anybody to test them on. Ginny is holding out for twenty galleons, instead of the five we offered, Bill and Charlie are both away still, Mum and Dad would kill us, we wouldn't dream of hurting Harry, and Percy would probably chuck us in Azkaban if we did anything to him. So you see Ron ... you are the proverbial ... it."  
  
Ron looked very downcast. "What kind of gags?" he asked.  
  
"Remember canary creams?" asked Fred. Both Harry and Ron nodded ... neither of them had accepted any food from either of the twins since.  
  
"Hamster n' raisin cookies," said George. "The same ... only different. You will test them for us."  
  
"No way," said Ron.  
  
"In the Great Hall ... during breakfast, on the first day back," Fred went on. "That's all we ask."  
  
"That's all," repeated George.  
  
"And if I don't?"  
  
"Then we reveal what you said ... to Draco Malfoy. It'd give him material for weeks," said George. "Well ... our work here is done, eh, Fred?"  
  
"Right you are, George," Fred stood up, and putting his hand on Harry's shoulder, whispered. "You want to watch yourself, Harry ... he probably won't try anything, but you never know."  
  
"If you want to sleep in our room tonight, Harry, we'll understand," said George. "Though it'll probably break Ron's heart."  
  
"Goodnight children ... play nicely now," they slipped out of the door. A moment later, both of them heard their footsteps thumping on the stairs, and great peals of laughter.  
  
"Sorry," said Harry, who as trying hard not to smirk.  
  
Ron shrugged. "You wouldn't have been able to stop them," he said. "When they get like that, you're safer keeping your gob shut."  
  
"I'm sorry anyway," said Harry.  
  
Ron coughed. "Don't be," he said. He picked up his robes again. "Any idea how you're meant to get these folded?" he asked.  
  
"You don't know how to fold?" asked Harry, incredulously. He was somewhat of an expert, having been forced to do the Dursleys ironing since he was old enough to hold an iron without burning himself. "What do you usually do?"  
  
"Usually I just throw everything in and jump on the lid until it closes," said Ron, gloomily. He threw the robes to Harry. "You have a go."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry, without feeling.  
  
************  
  
The stormy weather did not cease overnight, and come the next morning, it was as if there never had been a summer. Draco awoke to find water pouring down his bedroom windows, and the sound of thunder overhead. He dressed hurriedly, and went downstairs for breakfast.  
  
To his surprise, he found his Father was already seated at the breakfast table, wearing his finest dress robes, and reading the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. He looked up at the sound of Draco's footsteps.  
  
"For heaven's sake ... make yourself presentable, boy," he snarled.  
  
Draco looked down at himself. He wasn't wearing especially smart robes, but they were by no means his scruffiest. "Why, what's the problem?" he asked.  
  
"We have a guest," said Lucius. "He will be arriving at ten this morning. I want you to look your best for him."  
  
Draco helped himself to toast. "Who is it?" he asked.  
  
"That would spoil your surprise. He is most interested to meet you though, Draco," said Lucius, returning to his paper. "You will return to your bedroom forthwith, and change into something more presentable."  
  
"After breakfast," said Draco. "I'm hungry."  
  
Lucius glowered at him, but allowed Draco's insolence to pass.  
  
"Good morning dear. Good morning, Draco," Narcissa Malfoy swept into the room. "Don't forget, my hairdresser is coming at eleven," she said to Lucius, kissing him on the cheek.  
  
"I hadn't forgotten," said Lucius. "Draco and I are also expecting a visitor this morning."  
  
"Anybody important?" asked Narcissa.  
  
"I suppose you could term him as important," said Lucius. "He wields a great deal of influence, and I would like him to meet Draco, with, perhaps a view to future employment."  
  
"That'll be nice," said Narcissa. "You'd like a job, wouldn't you, Draco?"  
  
Draco nodded, and said, in between mouthfuls of toast. "Probably some day."  
  
"Anyway," said Lucius. "Your presence will not be required at this meeting. You will remain upstairs."  
  
"Of course," said Narcissa. "Am I to tell Simpkins to send the hairdresser up?"  
  
"Granted," said Lucius. He took another piece of toast, and spread it liberally with butter. For a while, all was silence, save for the sound of chewing.  
  
"The weather doesn't look like improving," said Draco, staring out of the dining room window, after a few minutes had passed.  
  
"I dare say it will," said Narcissa, in a vain attempt to make conversation. "These things generally do."  
  
Draco nodded his agreement. Father didn't seem to be listening. "Where am I to be presented to this guest?" he asked, after a further silence.  
  
"The meeting will take place in my study," said Lucius. "If you have quite finished with your breakfast, you may be excused to change. Mind you wear your best dress robes."  
  
"They're packed for school," protested Draco. "Simpkins packed for me last night."  
  
"Then Simpkins can bloody well unpack for you, can't he?" hissed Lucius. "That is what servants are for, after all."  
  
Draco nodded glumly, and excused himself from the table.  
  
************  
  
Ten o'clock found Draco standing, stiffly to attention in his Father's study. A roaring fire had been laid, and his Father was nowhere to be seen. Draco, who wanted to go upstairs and finish the homework he had only just started, was contemplating leaving. This guest, whoever it was, plainly was not going to show up.  
  
However, he was mistaken. At two minutes past the hour, the huge double doors to the study swung open, and two men, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky, entered, lead by his Father.  
  
"I trust you had a pleasant journey," Father was saying.  
  
"It was barely tolerable," the visitor replied.  
  
"Will you take a seat?"  
  
"I will," said the visitor. "Andrews will stand."  
  
Andrews ... Draco wondered where he'd heard the name before. The taller of the two men was lead over to one of the chairs. Father took his seat behind the desk.  
  
"Is this Draco?" asked the visitor, his voice high pitched, cold, almost lifeless.  
  
Draco stepped forwards. "I am honoured, sir," he said.  
  
"Indeed you are, boy," said the visitor. He removed his hood. A glimmer of recognition flashed across Draco's face. "Do you know who I am?"  
  
Draco shook his head. He looked familiar ... yet and at the same he was not. He had close cropped black hair, a handlebar moustache. His eyes were brown, his lips thin, his cheekbones well defined. Draco somehow knew he was staring into the eyes of a merciless, cold blooded killer. This was the moment he had been groomed for all his life. He felt a surge of excitement rush through his body.  
  
"Draco. This is the man I have told you about," said Lucius. "He is here to claim you."  
  
"I am honoured," breathed Draco.  
  
"Indeed you are," said the man. "Do you know my name, Draco?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Artemis Chaldean," he said.  
  
Chaldean smiled. "Your father has taught you well. I am pleased by this."  
  
"Thank you, Sir," Lucius said. He almost appeared to bow. Draco had of course, heard of Chaldean ... he had been one of Voldemort's greatest supporters. However he had never seen his Father display respect or reverence for another before.  
  
"Tell me, Malfoy," Chaldean turned to Lucius. "What does the boy know of us?"  
  
"He knows nothing," said Lucius. "I have told him nothing of our plans."  
  
Chaldean appeared to be rubbing his hands together in delight. Draco noticed his fingers ... very long, thin, and dainty ... they might have been those of a girl. These were hands that had never known hardship or work.  
  
"Excellent. It would have been impertinent of you, Lucius, to tell the child all."  
  
Draco fumed ... he was loathe to be referred to as a child. However he said nothing. His Father had taught him that Chaldean was one to be greatly feared ... a Pureblood sorcerer, descended, as legend had it, from very ancient, very powerful wizards, as well as being the most notorious Death Eater to have escaped Azkaban.  
  
Chaldean turned to Draco. "Do you like stories, Draco?" he asked.  
  
Lucius was nodding. Draco took the hint. "Very much, Sir," he said.  
  
Chaldean clapped his hands. "Excellent, Malfoy. You have raised him well. He will do for my purposes. Come closer, Draco, let me tell you my tale."  
  
Draco stepped closer.  
  
"Give me your hand, boy."  
  
Draco held out his right hand. Chaldean took it, and examined it closely, running his fingers along the lines of Draco's palm. His grip felt like ice ... it was like being touched by Winter.  
  
"I see you have a great potential," said Chaldean. "Yet also a great sadness. What troubles you, Draco?"  
  
Draco didn't say anything. He was troubled ... very much so, but to have revealed what was bothering him would be ... in his Father's eyes, the very worst display of cowardice. He could see his Father scowling at him out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Nothing," Draco said.  
  
Chaldean did not pursue the matter. "I can tell when another is lying, Draco," he said. "However, I have always believed that a man's innermost thoughts are his own private business. You have no need to tell me anything."  
  
Draco relaxed a little. Chaldean released his hand, then continued talking. "Once, Draco ... I was a great man. In my ... heyday, I suppose you could call it that ... there were none to touch me, none who could get close. None who could harm me. Can you picture me as a young man, Draco?"  
  
Draco tried to visualise Chaldean as a twenty-something ... however no image materialised ... his features gave the impression he had been old forever, that he had never known youth.  
  
"It is difficult, I know," said Chaldean, giving Draco the sudden impression that he was reading his thoughts. "I find it hard to believe that I was once a child, let alone a young man. Still, I was. When I was at Hogwarts, I was somewhat of an oddball ... the runt of the litter. I was the boy at the back, not paying attention ... the boy who had his head in a book when everyone else was off playing Quidditch. I spent most of my time in the library. I was miserable at Hogwarts, Draco ... truly miserable. One thing sustained me. Do you know what that was?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "I don't," he said. "Please go on."  
  
Chaldean nodded slowly. "My admiration for the Dark Arts. My desire to practice them, my desire to be the greatest wizard that the world has yet known. My idol was Salazar Slytherin ... and yet I was a Hufflepuff. Can you imagine the shame of that? I alone knew what house would make me great ... and I was in a different one. I longed to be in Slytherin, Draco ... with all my heart. If I had had my way, I would have cursed the Sorting Hat into oblivion. You are lucky, Draco. The Dark Arts flow through your veins as they do through mine ... yet you are in a position to fully exploit your gifts."  
  
Draco didn't know what to say. He whispered. "Thank you."  
  
Chaldean went on. "After Hogwarts," he said. "I worked for the Ministry for some years. Then, word reached my ear of another boy. Halfblooded, yet still destined for greatness. His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was an unhappy child ... shunted around Muggle orphanages, all the while becoming more and more angry with the world that had shunned him ... and the world in which he could not find acceptance. It was I who offered him a way out. I taught him to control the elemental forces within himself, and to use them to bend others to his will. Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort."  
  
Chaldean had paused. Draco looked up. "How come I never knew any of this?" he asked.  
  
"Nobody told you," said Lucius, scornfully. "Don't interrupt our guest again, Draco."  
  
Chaldean, meanwhile, was smiling. "Come now, Lucius," he said. "Curiosity and initiative are, after all, great virtues. I seem to recall you saying that yourself."  
  
"I stand corrected, Sir," said Lucius, bowing his head in a display of humility that Draco found almost unnerving.  
  
"It is right that your son should be curious," said Chaldean. "This information was kept from you for a very good reason, Draco. We ... both your Father and I, thought it best for you not to know how the story really went until you were old enough to understand fully."  
  
"I'm old enough now," said Draco. "Aren't I?"  
  
Chaldean nodded. "Together, Draco, Lord Voldemort and I were at the height of our powers. We had power unimaginable to you. We could have controlled the fates of nations, even of worlds. Voldemort, on the other hand, became somewhat, deluded with his power. So the old saying goes ... all power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Voldemort wanted nothing more than absolute power ... absolute power over the entire world. I, however, saw the futility of his plan. Whilst there were still good wizards in the world, there would always be somebody who would stand up and fight him. I tried to tell him this. I confronted him, but he would not hear me out, so drunk was he on his fantasies. Our ways parted at this time ... I think it must have been twenty or so years ago now."  
  
Lucius Malfoy was nodding. "You are right, Sir. It was twenty years, almost to the month."  
  
"Voldemort went somewhat astray after that. I watched my friend as he made mistake, after mistake, after mistake. True, he was gaining in power and influence over the wizarding world, but as he added card after card to his pile, the structure became unstable ... inherently so ... he began taking his power to extremes I could never have dreamt of. He strengthened himself with his Death Eaters ... masked terror, Draco. You could not possibly have known the fear. Even I was afraid ... and I wanted the same as Voldemort did. You can see how mixed up everything had become."  
  
Draco was staring at Chaldean with his mouth wide open. Chaldean regarded him with a look of vague amusement on his face. Finally, he spoke again. "You probably know how the story ends. Allow me to paint the scene for you. It is October 31st, 1981. Voldemort has received information that will allow him to take out one of the Light Side's most vaunted wizarding families. At a stroke, he can eliminate a figurehead, cripple an enemy. Unfortunately, James and Lily Potter prove rather too clever, even for one of supreme intellect, such as Voldemort. Ancient, powerful magic is invoked. Voldemort's curse rebounds off their baby son, and he is broken. It would seem that the story ends there, does it not?"  
  
Draco assumed it probably didn't. "It doesn't though, does it?" he asked.  
  
Chaldean shook his head. "By no means does it end there," he said, mysteriously. "It is now a year later, October 1982 ... the Death Eaters are broken ... a semblance of calm is restored, and everyone largely assumes Voldemort is no more. Then I was visited one night by two Death Eaters. One of them is now dead ... his name need not concern us. The other, as you will no doubt have guessed, was your Father, Draco. In the calamity that followed Voldemort's final collapse, he alone had seen the damage that had been done, and had resolved not to allow it to happen again. Your Father provided me with considerable information."  
  
Draco could scarcely believe what was being said to him. In the space of a couple of minutes, this Chaldean person had blown apart everything his Father had ever told him to believe in. His Father was a turncoat. *He* had always told Draco that honesty and honour were a million times more important than changing your colours simply because you were on the losing side. *He* had told Draco, in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if he turned traitor ... but now here he was, being told that his *Father* was just such a man. Draco almost felt disgusted. He turned to his Father ... who seemed to sense what was going through the boy's mind.  
  
"Believe me, Draco," he said. "I would not have done it had I never realised how unspeakably horrible the acts of Lord Voldemort had been. You have to understand ... things were very different in those days. My whole life had just been turned upside down. I feared for my safety. I feared for your safety, and your Mother's. I couldn't go to Azkaban."  
  
"You always told me Voldemort was your Master," said Draco. "You always told me he'd come for me some day. How could you have done that to me?"  
  
"I had to do it, Draco," said Lucius. "Voldemort has ways of finding out who remains loyal to him, and who has turned. If he even suspected. Just by telling you this, I am risking death."  
  
Draco looked up into his Father's eyes. "You're a spy?"  
  
Lucius nodded. "I came to Chaldean with information ... how Voldemort had met his downfall ... how we could regain the power we had had ... but without him. I had it all worked out. I could see that Voldemort's ways were the *wrong* ways. I understood that, and so did Chaldean. Believe me, Draco, my beliefs never changed."  
  
Chaldean was nodding his head, slowly. "Your Father was able to tell me much ... he told me that, amongst other things, Voldemort was not dead, as I had believed ... that he was biding his time, re-gathering his vast strength ... ready to seek his revenge on the boy who proved his downfall."  
  
"Potter," breathed Draco.  
  
"Indeed. I understand he is in your year?"  
  
"That's correct," said Draco. "He's a Gryffindor."  
  
Chaldean chuckled. "How ironic," he said. "He is a good Quidditch player too? They say he has a great future ahead of him. They are probably right, though it will doubtless be a short one."  
  
Lucius Malfoy smiled.  
  
"Potter is still a boy at heart," Chaldean went on. "His loyalties are not fully formed ... I suspect even he doesn't know where they might land. He was, after all, raised far away from the world of his true people. He has only been aware that he is a wizard for the last four years. This is not nearly long enough to become acquainted with a world and its ways. Harry Potter is still ripe for the picking ... and this is where my plan comes in."  
  
"Your plan?" asked Draco. "You told me it was Voldemort's," he rounded on his Father, who merely sat there, and shook his head.  
  
"You still don't seem to understand, Draco," his Father said. "I could have said little else in that restaurant. Who knows who could have overheard us?"  
  
"I need Harry Potter," said Chaldean. "I need him for our scheme to work. Voldemort is returned to power ... even as we speak, he is consolidating it. Now, he is as powerful as he was before he became crazed ... and it is a matter of time before he becomes crazed again. He must be stopped, before he destroys the Dark side ... for he will surely take us all with him if he is destroyed by the Light. We must stop him, and we must stop him soon. To stop Voldemort, we need Harry Potter. We need him on our side, and we need him by Christmas. Even that may be too late."  
  
"Why don't you just kidnap him?" asked Draco.  
  
"We had considered that," said Chaldean. "However we would not get near him. As long as he remains with his Muggle relatives, he is protected from harm ... and at Hogwarts, the increasingly deluded Albus Dumbledore has his eye constantly on the boy. As such, we need someone who can get close to Harry ... exploit his weaknesses and his foolishness. We immediately thought of you, Draco."  
  
"I understand," said Draco. He had always thought his loyalties would always lie with Voldemort ... but in the light of what he had been told, he would have to reconsider. His Father would, no doubt, have severe words with him if he refused ... and the whole situation was made doubly difficult by the fact that unlike Potter, Draco had always known he was a wizard. It would be very hard to try and change now.  
  
He looked up, his Father and Chaldean were staring at him, inquisitive looks on their faces.  
  
"Well, Draco?" his Father asked. "Will you help us."  
  
Draco nodded. "I'll do my best," he said. What else could he have said. There was ice in his Father's eyes. They said; renege now, and I'll flay you to within an inch of your pathetic life.  
  
Chaldean motioned to Andrews, who disappeared from the room. "Do not think you will have no help from us. We look after our own," Andrews returned, bearing a small tray on which sat several pot plants. Dragon trees.  
  
"This plant," Chaldean said, picking one of them off the tray as Andrew proffered it. "This plant will be your ally. With it, you will be able to bend others to your will. They will be powerless to resist. Use it wisely, Draco."  
  
He handed Draco the plant. Draco held it at arms length, remembering what his Father had told him.  
  
"These were for me?" he asked. "All along?"  
  
Lucius nodded. "Use them well. They are a great weapon."   



	3. Biscuits, Bullies & Detentions

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
DISCLAIMER  
  
Most of the recognisable characters, concepts and locations referenced within belong wholly to J.K. Rowling and other production companies. I imply no rights or control myself ... as we say ... it's just a bit of fun!  
  
A/N  
  
This part was rewritten following a 'fatal' crash on my University's PC network, which caused me to lose the entire document. IMO, it is not as good as the original, but is a fair shot at recreating it.  
  
If you've been reviewing, then you're reading this months after I finished the story ... so many thanks for making the effort. I *still* read *all* my reviews, so if you choose to leave feedback now, it will not go unappreciated. Keep on reading ... I promise it'll be worth the effort.  
  
Go hunting for pop culture references in this part; look out for my homage to appalling Danish Euro-Pop group Aqua, and the Budweiser and Strongbow commercials in this part! Hooray ... more oblique references! Llandudno is pronounced th-lan-dud-no by the way.  
  
PART THREE. BISCUITS, BULLIES AND DETENTIONS.  
  
September 1st was a bright, sunny, autumnal day. Draco, however, sitting in the back of his Father's chauffeured Jaguar as they headed into London on the M4, was not in a position to enjoy it, for he was deep in thought. Although he had always known that the day would come when he would have to begin to serve the Dark Side ... he had somehow never pictured the circumstances as being quite so bizarre. He had learnt some funny things in the last few days ... not least that his Father, whom he had always believed in his heart to have remained loyal to Voldemort, had in fact turned against him soon after his downfall. The mysterious Artemis Chaldean also puzzled him. His Father had mentioned him in conversation of course, told Draco about him many times during his childhood ... but had always omitted to say that it was Chaldean whom Draco would end up serving. Probably this was not surprising, he had told Draco himself that Voldemort had eyes and ears almost anywhere you cared to name. It was still unsettling though.  
  
If the truth be told, Draco was dreading going back to Hogwarts now. When he had arrived home on that sweltering July evening, he had wished himself to be back there ... but now ... now that his life had taken such a dramatic twist, he would rather have been back home. The reason for this was, of course, the mission he had accepted ... to gain Harry Potter's trust, influence his thoughts, guide him into the clutches of the Dark Side without making it appear obvious. To do this, he would have to make friends with Harry ... a near impossibility considering the state of their relationship up to that point. He would have to be friendly, and he shuddered at the thought. The thing was, he didn't really have friends, and he was not that sort of boy. Oh sure, there was Crabbe, and Goyle, and the other Slytherins ... but Crabbe and Goyle had kind of drifted into his orbit over the course of the years, and though they proved their worth as evil sidekicks, Draco did not really like them. He had also found himself being reluctantly courted by Pansy Parkinson ... whose one saving grace was that she wasn't a Mudblood.  
  
Draco dreaded to think how his fellow Slytherins would react at his apparent, blatant change of heart. Each and every one of them, he knew, hated that bigheaded Potter and his pathetic friends. If they saw him even talking to Harry ... let *alone* being nice to him ... he shuddered again. He had, mercifully, never had to face Crabbe or Goyle in a fight, and he wasn't sure he particularly wanted to. Despite their seemingly gormless facade, they were, incredibly, blessed with a modicum of intelligence that was at least sufficient to allow them to work out that Draco was being treacherous.  
  
"God help me," he breathed. He returned to staring out of the window ... they had left the motorway now, and were stuck in a tailback on Euston Road. Draco, despite what his Father had drummed into him over the years, was, as ever, fascinated to see the Muggle world operating in parallel to his own. That businessman in the white Renault Laguna, that motorcycle courier cutting through the stationery traffic, that shop assistant, carefully stacking volumes of books in a window display, that crocodile of schoolkids, meandering along the pavement, lead by a man carrying a Donald Duck umbrella. None of these people knew who he was ... none of them had heard of Voldemort, or Hogwarts! None of them could do any magic! They couldn't *even* play Quidditch! It was very weird. Draco wondered what would happen if they knew. They would probably think much the same of his people.  
  
"Master Draco," Simpkins' voice disturbed him from his reverie. "We may be a little late arriving at the station."  
  
Draco checked his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. The Hogwarts Express never failed to leave on time ... unlike the Muggle trains.  
  
"How far are we?" he asked. The cars around them were beginning to honk their horns in frustration.  
  
"About a quarter of a mile," said Simpkins.  
  
"As long as we don't miss it," said Draco.  
  
"I am sure, if we do, we will be able to find another way to get you to school," said Simpkins.  
  
"I wouldn't bother trying, if I were you," Draco muttered under his breath. Fortunately, Simpkins didn't hear.  
  
The traffic was moving again, creeping slowly along the road, they passed the cause of the hold up ... a van had rear-ended a black cab, there was mess everywhere and the other drivers were slowing down to rubberneck. The cabby was standing on the pavement, remonstrating loudly with the driver of the van, a large man in a Scotland football shirt, and two Muggle policemen. They were attracting a sizeable crowd.  
  
They arrived at King's Cross at one minute past eleven. Draco almost leapt out of the car ... grabbed the nearest free trolley for his luggage, and saying a hurried goodbye to Simpkins, dashed into the station. To his dismay, he found it crowded with people, staring blankly at the Departures Board ... there had been some kind of security alert, a suspect package at the next station down the line and no trains were being allowed to leave. Praying that the Hogwarts Express would also be affected by the delay, Draco elbowed his way through the crowd, attracting many stares and snide comments about the youth of today as he did so. Draco ignored them.  
  
To his great relief, the train was still standing at the Platform, and other people were still loading their luggage on board. Draco spotted Potter and Weasley, saying goodbye to a dumpy, red headed woman he recognised as Ron's mother. She gave them a final farewell, and wandered away, looking back vaguely over her shoulder as she did so, as if worried about something. Harry and Ron appeared deep in conversation. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible, he sauntered over, one hand on the handle of his trolley. He took a deep breath.  
  
"All right?" he asked.  
  
Ron sneered at him. "Hello, ferret boy," he said. "What do you want then?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "I ... nothing ... just thought I'd come and say hello," he turned to Harry, who was regarding his sternly over his glasses. "Did you have a good break, Harry?" he asked, doing his best to smile, but knowing he was blushing bright scarlet.  
  
"It was crap, since you mentioned it, Malfoy," snapped Harry.  
  
Draco had been just about to say that he'd spent three weeks on safari in South Africa, but thought better of it.  
  
"Did you not go away?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be before it came.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Not that it has anything to do with you," he said.  
  
"Just being friendly," Draco shrugged.  
  
"Well, you picked the wrong friends then, didn't you," said Ron. "Go away and leave us alone."  
  
"Don't know what the world's coming to," said Draco, moodily. "When a chap can't have a pleasant chat to his peers without getting an earful," he tried to look vaguely tearful, though as he was an appalling actor, this didn't work, and he ended up looking as if he needed the toilet.  
  
"Since when," said Harry, prodding Draco in the chest, "were you our friend?"  
  
"I was only trying to be polite, Harry," said Draco.  
  
"And what happened to Potter ... Malfoy?"  
  
"I'll go," said Draco, sensing defeat. "See you later?"  
  
"Don't bet on it," hissed Ron.  
  
Draco turned, and began to push his trolley away, noting as he did so that it had a squeaky wheel, which only accentuated his feeling of intense foolishness. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He couldn't remember having ever been quite so embarrassed before. The direct approach didn't seem to be working ... yet.  
  
"Get a grip, Draco," he said to himself, spotting Pansy Parkinson waving to him from the other end of the platform. He pretended not to have noticed her, and started to heave his heavy school trunk into the nearest carriage. Pansy shrugged, and climbed on board the train. Draco breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"Move it, Malfoy, you're blocking the corridor," someone said. Draco turned round. It was Hermione. But she looked so different ... she was tanned, she had sorted out her hair, and her eyes seemed different. She was ... Draco swallowed ... she was actually very pretty indeed. Draco couldn't take his eyes off her.  
  
"You look ... nice," he squeaked, mentally cursing himself as he did so.  
  
Hermione gave him a withering look. "Get your stuff out of the way," she repeated.  
  
If Draco heard that, it didn't register. "So ... um ... did you have a good holiday?"  
  
"Since when did that matter to you?" scoffed Hermione. "Are you actually going to move, or are you just going to stand around all day gawking at me?"  
  
"I'll move then," said Draco. He flattened himself against the wall to let her past, and was faintly gratified when she brushed against him. He watched her recede down the corridor.  
  
"Bloody hell," whispered Draco. "Not now. Not on top of everything else!"  
  
**************  
  
It was a couple of hours later ... the Hogwarts Express had left behind the dreary suburbs of North London, and was streaking northwards through open countryside. Hazy sunshine was slanting in through the windows. Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were sitting in their compartment, each passing the time in their own way. Conversation had dried up between them.  
  
"You'll never guess who tried to talk to us on the platform," said Ron, all of a sudden. Hermione looked up from the Transfiguration textbook she was reading.  
  
"It wasn't Malfoy, was it?" she asked.  
  
Ron nodded. "Spot on," he said.  
  
"What did he want?" asked Hermione.  
  
"He was ... it was weird," Ron went on. "He was trying to be nice to us. He called Harry Harry."  
  
Hermione had to admit that that was unusual. "I bumped into him as well," she said. "He looked stressed."  
  
"What did he say?" asked Ron.  
  
"Not much ... that's the thing," said Hermione. "He kept staring at me ... he can do puppy dog eyes when he wants to."  
  
Ron shuddered. "Okay, bad image," he said. "You know what that means, don't you?"  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Come off it, Hermione," said Ron, looking exasperated. "I'm not as green as I'm cabbage looking. Somebody has hooked themselves a secret admirer."  
  
"I don't want a secret admirer," said Hermione. "I'm not ready for that level of commitment ... especially not from Draco Malfoy, thank you very much."  
  
"You'll be fending off his advances next," said Ron. "It'll be boxes with pink balloons in them, and little choccies on your pillow."  
  
"Don't be disgusting, Ron," said Harry. "The very thought," he turned to Hermione. "Please promise me you won't try and get off with Draco?"  
  
Hermione blushed. "The very thought," she said. "Had not even begun to cross my mind."  
  
"That's a great relief," said Harry. "I had a very nasty mental picture forming there."  
  
"I don't really want to know," said Hermione. "Anyway ... there isn't any way I'd ever find myself attracted to him ... and just imagine what his darling Daddy would say if he knew he was seeing a *Mudblood*."  
  
"Hermione's right," said Ginny, who had been rushing to finish her Charms homework. "There's no way Draco would try anything ... look at him ... the boy is warped, and probably gay too," she added.  
  
Hermione nodded her agreement. "There you go," he said. "It was probably nothing."  
  
Ron shook his head. "You mark my words," he said. "The moon hit his eye like some kind of pizza. It's amore."  
  
"He was probably just constipated," said Hermione. "I hope he really suffers."  
  
"Who suffers?" asked someone. Hermione looked up to see Draco leaning casually in the doorway.  
  
"Nobody," said Hermione, quickly. "What do you want this time?"  
  
"I was ... the trolley's coming. I was wondering if anybody wanted anything," said Draco.  
  
"I think we can buy our own food, thank you very much," said Harry, with feeling.  
  
Draco shrugged. "Fair enough?" he said. "What are you guys up to?" he was blatantly staring at Hermione again.  
  
"Nothing, since you asked," said Ron. "Now bugger off."  
  
"Huh, charmed, I'm sure," snorted Draco. "Just making conversation."  
  
"Well don't," said Harry. "What has got into you?"  
  
"I'm the same as I've always been," lied Draco.  
  
"That'll be the day," said Harry. "Why are you being nice to us?"  
  
"Just thought it was pointless being nasty to everybody," said Draco. "It doesn't get me anywhere really, does it?"  
  
"So we're seeing the new, all improved, twenty five per cent extra free, Alpine Fresh Draco Malfoy, are we?" asked Harry.  
  
"In a manner of speaking," said Draco. "Mind if I join you? Crabbe and Goyle are being very dull today."  
  
"Yes, we do mind," said Ron. "Take the hint and go away."  
  
"Come on, Ron," said Draco. "I'm at least making the effort to be nice to you. You might as well do me the courte..."  
  
"No," said Hermione. "You see ... Malfoy ... the thing is, we don't actually like you. At all. The thing is, we'd rather bathe in our own vomit than have anything to do with you. Now I don't know what you've been taking, or how much of it, and frankly I don't care. Just go away and leave us in peace."  
  
Draco stared at her. If such a thing were possible, he would go as far as to say that she had become even more beautiful in her anger. He stopped himself ... tried to shake such thoughts from his mind, and said. "I won't pretend I'm not insulted," he said. "I came in peace, and you shot me down! I hope you can live with that," he finished, turned, and left the compartment, slamming the door shut behind him. He clenched his fists and cursed himself. He'd flown straight over enemy guns and had been stupid enough to think they wouldn't open fire.  
  
"You can't deny it," said Ron. "He's acting weird."  
  
"I wonder what he's done with the real Malfoy," mused Hermione.  
  
"You have to admit, he was looking at you then," said Ron. "Lovesick staring is the first stage ... he'll be crying in bed tonight, that'll be stage two."  
  
"Don't," said Hermione.  
  
"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Ron. "I'm not a psychiatrist, but I can tell when somebody has just fallen head over heels in love."  
  
Hermione glowered at him, and returned to her reading. However, she couldn't get back into it, and before long, found herself staring round the compartment. Perhaps Ron had been right ... they were all growing up, after all. She'd definitely noticed it. She'd started buying fluffy pens, and looking at other boys whenever she went out, and crying for hours on end about nothing in particular. She wondered if the others were going through the same thing. She looked at Harry ... physically, a very slight boy, though he had definitely grown lately, now, without a doubt, on his way to manhood. There was already a squarer set to his shoulders ... his robes didn't hang as limply as they once had ... his face was different too ... she'd never noticed that before. In so many ways he still resembled that timid eleven year old she'd watched, shaking with fear, up on that stage, waiting to try on the Sorting Hat. But then, in so many ways, he didn't.  
  
Then there was Ron. There was no denying he'd done some *serious* growing. He must now be approaching six foot. His hair was no longer the vibrant, shocking red it had once been, but was now more muted in tone, though still distinctive. His robes still didn't fit properly ... everything always seemed a little too small for him. There's no doubt about it, she thought. We've all changed.  
  
Her thoughts turned to Draco. Of course it was obvious Draco was attracted to her ... the signals had all been there. But then ... was she really going to admit that to a couple of hormonal fifteen year olds? Hah! As if! She wondered how she felt about him, before realising it was something she had honestly never thought about before. There was no denying he *was* a handsome boy. His eyes were very deep, melancholic, even. His silvery blond hair, which did not seem to have darkened with age, gave him a certain rarity value. However, that was as far as it went. She knew he was a hateful, nasty, spiteful boy. She would not want to be seen dead with such a person, and that, at least as far as she was concerned, was an end to it.  
  
**************  
  
Unbeknownst to her, back in his compartment with Crabbe and Goyle, Draco was thinking roughly along the same lines. His thoughts disturbed him, too. He had never, ever felt that way about any girl at all ... and though he longed to tell Hermione how he felt, he knew he never could. What would his Father say, after all? His control over Draco's life was so complete that he had already practically arranged a marriage for him ... into another wealthy wizarding family. He'd never met, nor even seen the girl in question. Such is the way things always pan out for me, he thought, stoically, as he watched Crabbe and Goyle giggling childishly at a cartoon in the magazine they were reading.  
  
Hermione was different though. Draco had always secretly suspected that he envied her for her friends, her brains, if not for her looks (until now, anyway). But she was a Mudblood, and Draco had always been told what their kind was like. His Father had never let an opportunity to instruct his son in their evil ways pass unexploited, and consequently Draco had been influenced in turn by his Father's hatred of all things non-magical ... though of course, he didn't yet know this.  
  
In his mind, he was forming a mental picture of himself and Hermione. He grinned at the thought. It would be a bloody shock for the old man. "By the way, Father. This is Hermione ... she's a Mudblood but she can't half cook a good rhubarb crumble!" He grinned. Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to get into Potter's inner circle *after* all. If he could make Hermione fall for him, he might just be in with a chance ... and if not, there were always the dragon trees, even now safely stowed in the bottom of his trunk.  
  
**************  
  
The delay in leaving King's Cross meant that darkness had long since fallen by the time they pulled into Hogsmeade Station. With the darkness had come fierce, angry clouds that scudded across the sky, borne on the strong, westerly wind, occasionally affording a glimpse of the stars. On all sides, the Northumbrian peaks seemed to close in on them.  
  
It was very chilly outside. Harry hugged his robes to himself for warmth as he cast his eyes up and down the platform. Despite whatever the year would hold for him, and he had a feeling it would not be without adventure, he was glad to be back. He could see Fred and George, leaning on one of the wrought iron pillars, flirting outrageously with Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet ... there was Neville, Dean and Seamus. Draco was surrounded by a gaggle of Slytherins, hanging onto his every word.  
  
Somebody ... possibly Professor Flitwick, was holding a lantern high above their heads, and calling in a weak voice. "Could all the First Years congregate over here please? Just First Years ... thank you."  
  
They had told Hermione that Hagrid wouldn't be back for the start of term ... and to Harry's surprise she had actually taken the bad news rather well ... at least, there had been no tears or recriminations. It was, however, still a shock to not see his enormous, bearded frame on the platform, marshalling the First Years like ducklings, and always with a cheery greeting for everyone. Harry wondered who his replacement was going to be.  
  
Hermione put a hand on his shoulder. "We'd better get a free carriage," she said to him. "Come on."  
  
They trooped out of the station, to where the traditional fleet of horseless carriages was, as ever, waiting for them. Hermione spotted an empty one, and they scrambled in.  
  
"Good to be back eh?" said Harry, as the carriage jolted, and began to move slowly forwards.  
  
Hermione nodded ... Ron, on the other hand, didn't.  
  
"I'm really looking forward to this year actually," she said, as the carriages swept through the open gates and began the long climb up the hill to Hogwarts. The castle itself was perched high above the village, but as Harry stared at it, he felt it seemed to have lost it's aura of excitement and friendliness. Silhouetted against the angry sky, it looked brooding and menacing. Almost ... evil.  
  
Hermione was still chattering away nineteen to the dozen. "...have to work really hard for our exams this year of course. I hope *I* get straight A's. I'll be very disappointed if I don't," she stopped herself. Harry was looking out of the window, very forlornly. "Is there something wrong?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Look at that," he said, pointing.  
  
Hermione followed the direction of his finger. He was pointing to Hagrid's little wooden hut. There was a light on in one of the windows, and smoke was coming out the chimney.  
  
"Wonder who they got in?" said Ron.  
  
"Probably someone from the village," said Hermione. "Let's face it, it doesn't take a genius to do the gardening," she stopped as she saw their faces. "Sorry, that was insensitive."  
  
"Nah, forget it," said Harry, as the carriage rumbled across the drawbridge, and drew to a halt in the courtyard. They climbed out, and went inside, still shivering, for it was very cold.  
  
Inside, the castle seemed much more welcoming. An enormous fire had been lit in the Great Hall, the chandeliers were glowing with light, and the house tables, which were fast filling up, were laid with the ornate golden crockery and the fantastic goblets that they had come to expect. They took their seats at the Gryffindor table, and watched as the rest of the school filed in. Dumbledore was already seated at the top table, along with all the other teachers, aside, of course, from Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, who was probably even now barking instructions at the First Years. Harry smiled as he remembered how scared he had been of her, and not without good reason too. She was, without any shadow of a doubt, a scary woman.  
  
Harry scanned the top table. There were two new teachers there. Of course, one *must* be Snape's replacement. He was probably the one in the fine red velvet robes, casting his eyes across the hall as though the students were utterly beneath his contempt. He was also completely bald, and the light glinted off his head. The other new teacher was a woman, and Harry suspected she must be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. She was ... there was no other word for it ... she was quite stunningly beautiful. Long, golden hair fell in cascades down her back. Her face was elegant, refined, her eyes shimmering sapphires of exotic blue. Harry could barely look away.  
  
"You think she's a Veela?" he asked Ron, who shook his head.  
  
"What are you talking about?" asked Hermione, leaning closer.  
  
"Er, nothing," said Harry, quickly.  
  
"You don't have to pretend you weren't making eyes at her!" said Hermione, straight out. "I'm perfectly able to deal with adolescent crushes."  
  
"Ssh, you take all the romance out of a situation," said Ron. "Can't you see Harry's smitten?"  
  
Harry made a face at him. "She's all right," he said. Ron and Hermione exchanged knowing glances.  
  
The Hall burst into spontaneous applause as Professor McGonagall entered, towing in her wake the First Years, each of whom looked singularly terrified. She led them up the steps to the dais, where the Sorting Hat, looking even more frayed and grubby than before, rested on its customary stool.  
  
"When I call your name," Professor McGonagall was saying. "You will step forward, in turn, and put on the hat, which will then tell you what House you are to be put into," she coughed, and from the folds of her emerald green robes, withdrew a long piece of parchment, which she unrolled with great ceremony. All eyes were on the stage.  
  
"Ampleforth, Julian."  
  
The boy stepped forwards, short, with sandy hair. He walked slowly up to the stool, sat down, and placed the Hat on his head.  
  
There was a momentary pause.  
  
"Gryffindor!" the Hat shouted. Julian removed it, looking very relieved, and tossing a grin to the rest of his Year, came down the steps to take his seat and have his hand ritually shaken by everyone.  
  
"I hope we get a good crop this year," Nearly-Headless Nick, Gryffindor's resident ghost, was saying to Fred. "It would be *nice* to maintain our traditions."  
  
Julian was already deep in conversation with Colin and Dennis Creevey, who were pointing at Harry. Harry looked away in annoyance ... evidently some things were not going to change overnight. The Ravenclaws clapped and cheered to welcome Dedman, Lucy.  
  
"Ericssen, Johannes!" called Professor McGonagall. Johannes, who looked even more frightened than the rest of them, came nervously forwards to try on the hat, which took mere seconds to put him in Slytherin. The disappointment on Johannes' face as he stepped down from the stage, and sauntered reluctantly over to the Slytherin table, was painfully evident. Draco Malfoy was already on his feet, shaking the boy's hand. Johannes looked singularly unimpressed.  
  
"Poor kid," said Ron.  
  
Nearly-Headless Nick looked sympathetic too. "We can't expect everyone to end up in Gryffindor. There must always be some disappointments."  
  
"All the same," said Ron. "He looks utterly miserable ... and now he has to talk to Malfoy. Poor sod."  
  
The table erupted with applause and catcalls as Finnegan, Padraig was made a Gryffindor. Seamus was bursting with pride.  
  
"That's my brother," he said to Ron. "I knew he'd do it!"  
  
"You never said you had a brother," said Ron, surprised.  
  
"Huh, you never asked!"  
  
"Fair point," conceded Ron. He couldn't help noticing that Fred and George kept looking in his direction, and tossing suspicious smiles at him. He had a feeling he knew what they meant. He turned to Harry.  
  
"You think they'll actually go through with it?" he asked him.  
  
Harry shrugged. "Possibly," he said. "Do they ever forget to carry out a threat."  
  
"They are the elephants of the Weasley family," said Ron. "The day they forget to carry out a threat will be the day uni-cycling lemmings invade Hogwarts and start holding Latino dance classes in Snape's dungeon."  
  
Harry gave him a very odd look. "Right you are then," he said.  
  
"What are you two conspiring about?" asked Hermione, turning to look at the two of them.  
  
"Probably nothing," said Harry.  
  
Ron shook his head grimly. "We might as well tell her," he said, with great melancholy in his voice. "She'll find out soon enough."  
  
"What is it then ... what are you planning?" asked Hermione.  
  
"It's less a case of what we're planning, than a case of what Fred and George are planning," said Ron.  
  
"And what are they planning?" prompted Hermione.  
  
Ron told her, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of clapping as Villarreal, Carlos became a Hufflepuff, so she didn't hear.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"You remember the canary creams?" asked Ron, sneaking a glance at Fred and George, who were talking to Katie and Alicia ... again.  
  
Hermione nodded. "Poor Neville," she said.  
  
"Exactly," said Ron. "Anyway, that isn't my point. My point is that they've been, um, how can I put this?"  
  
"In English?"  
  
"They've been ... fiddling with their equipment," Harry barely suppressed a snigger.  
  
Hermione gave him a very puzzled look. "If I didn't know better, Ron," she said. "I'd feel sure you were talking about something else."  
  
"They've been making more biscuits, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"And these ones can turn you into a hamster, right?"  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"So, guess who they're planning to try them out on," prompted Ron.  
  
"Er, you?"  
  
"Got it in one," said Ron. At that moment, Dumbledore clapped his hands for silence. Ron mouthed, 'I'll tell you later' at Hermione, and turned to hear him speak.  
  
"A very warm welcome to you all," Dumbledore began. Some of the First Years were coughing nervously. "I see, perhaps not surprisingly under the circumstances, a lot of new faces here this evening."  
  
The First Years, not quite sure if he'd made a joke, tittered slightly.  
  
"And I see a lot of very old ones too. As some of the older students may have already noticed, two of our number are missing this year. Professor Snape, and Rubeus Hagrid are both on sabbatical this term, and will not be returning until after the Christmas break. In the meantime, Hagrid's duties, including the teaching of his Care of Magical Creatures Class, will be looked after by Xavier Wilmot, who unfortunately cannot be here tonight. Mr Wilmot has worked for many years at the Institute for Advanced Magical Research in Llandudno, Wales."  
  
Harry and Ron exchanged glances ... obviously he wouldn't be a patch on Hagrid, but at least things didn't look as though they would be too bad.  
  
"Our other new teachers this term are Professor Marmaduke Winston-Smythe, who joins us to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts..."  
  
Harry turned to Ron, flabbergasted, surely that meant...  
  
"...and Doctor Gwyneth Jones, who joins us to teach Potions, and will also be assuming Professor Snape's duties as head of Slytherin House during his absence. Professor Winston-Smythe has taught at several magical institutions in the past, and has lately returned from a post as British ambassador to Kazakhstan. Doctor Jones hails from Cardiff in Wales, and like Mr Wilmot, worked for many years at the Institute for Advanced Magic Research in Llandudno, as well as taking time to gain her PhD in potions and narcotics. She has five years teaching experience at other magical schools in Europe. May I please ask you to rise, and bid a warm welcome to both of them."  
  
The school rose to its feet as one, and applauded to welcome the new teachers. By far the loudest clapping came from the Slytherin table, who looked very appreciative of their new Head of House.  
  
Dumbledore again raised a hand for quiet. The took their seats again. Dumbledore continued to speak. "I am sure you will make them proud of you, as indeed you usually do with your customary flair, talent and imagination. Now, what does everyone say to a spot of grub?"  
  
The ornate dishes and bowls set along every table filled up with mountains of piping hot food, to gasps from the First Years, many of whom hadn't been expecting it to work quite like that.  
  
"That's a shame," said Ron. "That's a crying shame."  
  
Harry helped himself to roast potatoes. "I was so sure she was going to be the Dark Arts teacher ... I was so sure."  
  
"Yeah, bully for you, eh, Harry?" said Ron, cheerfully, as he made a grab for a dish of buttered carrots that was floating past.  
  
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione was saying, in between ladling extravagant quantities of gravy onto her roast chicken. "Just because she's a Slytherin doesn't necessarily mean she's automatically horrible. She might be really nice..."  
  
"Yeah, and I bet she does a mean beans on toast," said Ron, sarcastically.  
  
"Well she might be!" said Hermione, more firmly this time.  
  
"Hermione!" said Ron, exasperated. "You've been here, what, four years now?"  
  
"Four years, this is the fifth."  
  
"Exactly, and in all that time at Hogwarts, haven't you learned the most important thing? Slytherins don't come nice. They're *all* as slimy as each other! They come in any flavour you like ... as long as it's horrible. You don't get nice ones."  
  
Hermione began to eat. "Well," she said, haughtily. "*I'm* going to give her a chance."  
  
**************  
  
Harry came down to breakfast early the next morning, to find a few of the teachers, including Doctor Jones, already seated at the top table, and some of the students too ... including Ron. Ron was sitting at the Gryffindor table, quite alone, being stared at by some First Year Ravenclaws at the next table, spreading butter liberally on a mountain of toast. He looked up as Harry sat down opposite him.  
  
"What's up?" asked Harry.  
  
"Nothing, just eating some toast," said Ron.  
  
"That's true," said Harry. "Not up for a fry up are we? I fancy a little bacon."  
  
"Not for me," said Ron, biting into his toast, and spraying crumbs all over the table as he spoke. "I know this looks like I'm trying to have breakfast early to avoid Fred and George, but you are sadly mistaken if you think such a thing."  
  
"Then why are you having breakfast early?" asked Harry. "Or am I missing something very obvious here?"  
  
Ron shrugged. "I'm hungry," he replied.  
  
"That I can tell," said Harry, as he helped himself to several very large, very fat sausages.  
  
Ron tried to change the subject. "You still cut up about Doctor Jones?"  
  
"Oh wake up now, Ron!" said Harry, annoyed. "She's attractive, but that's all there is to it."  
  
"Well, I'm glad to see you adopting a reasonable and mature attitude to the situation," said Ron. "You ought to know she's completely unattainable."  
  
"And she's a Slytherin," said Harry. "Best to forget about her."  
  
"I'm not sure how she'd deal with a full blown relationship with a fifteen year old boy," said Ron. "She's out of your league."  
  
"I said I'd forgotten about her," said Harry, very firmly, although the look he cast at Doctor Jones made it very clear he hadn't.  
  
Fred and George had entered the Great Hall. George was carrying a little brown paper bag casually in one hand. Ron had a feeling he knew what it was.  
  
Fred and George ambled over, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
"Good morning, dear Ronald," said Fred, clapping his hand on his brother's shoulder.  
  
"Hail fellow, well met," went George, putting his hand on Ron's other shoulder.  
  
Fred leant in close. "I do hope ickle-Ronniekins wasn't trying to eat breakfast early and get away without us noticing."  
  
"Because we'd only ask you to do it again," said George. "And eventually, you'd end up having breakfast earlier, and earlier, and earlier..."  
  
"And eventually, you'd end up having it round about dinner time."  
  
"Then lunch time."  
  
"And finally breakfast time," concluded Fred. "Then we'd have come full circle, and we'd have you trapped. That would happen round about mid-February, by my reckoning."  
  
"Or late January, if you still use the Julian calendar," said George. "Which we don't."  
  
"So you see, Ronald, either way, we win."  
  
Ron was nodding grimly. "I was hungry," he said, the lie not even sounding halfway convincing.  
  
"We can tell," said George. "That toast mountain could keep the Sudan in food for years. Possibly even decades. We could pay off the National Debt with it. Are you entering some sort of competition?"  
  
"Or are you just eating all the pies?" asked Fred. "Or toast, in this case."  
  
Ron had gone slightly pale around the gills. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, resignedly.  
  
"I thought we explained that," said George. "Eat the biscuit, become a hamster ... bang ... hilarity ensues!"  
  
"But not right now," said Fred. "Wait till the hall fills up..."  
  
"Maximum amusement, minimum effort," said George.  
  
"Right," said Fred.  
  
George placed his little paper bag next to Ron's plate. Ron slowly opened the bag, and peered inside. At the bottom lay one, very round, very innocent looking biscuit. There were little raisins baked into it, and someone had very conscientiously picked out a smiley face in pink icing.  
  
"It looks lovely," said Ron, uncertainly.  
  
"Of course it's lovely, we made it," said Fred.  
  
"We'll tip you the wink when the fun is to begin," said George. "Remember, we'll be watching you."  
  
Ron looked very downcast as Fred and George sauntered away, and took seats at the other end of the table.  
  
"Would you like to share it, Harry?" he asked, when they were safely out of earshot.  
  
"Not particularly," came the reply.  
  
"Didn't think so," said Ron. He looked up ... Draco Malfoy had just come into the hall, as ever, with Crabbe and Goyle bumbling along behind him like two oversized moons orbiting a blond planet. Draco, however, looked a shadow of his former self. He was even paler than usual, and was looking around the hall not with his usual, self-assured, throwaway glance, but with definite nervousness in his eyes. Ron wondered what was the matter with him.  
  
Harry was speaking again. "Look at it this way, Ron," he said ... the Hall was filling up by now. "What's the worse thing that can happen?"  
  
"You mean worse than the return of You-Know-Who?"  
  
"Not quite in that vein," said Harry. "What's the worst thing that could happen in the current situation?"  
  
"That wooden beam could fall on my head, splitting me in two and ending my days prematurely," said Ron.  
  
Harry looked up at the beam. It looked very secure, though he'd never had cause to notice it before now. "The worst conceivable thing?" he ventured.  
  
"I turn into a giant hamster," said Ron. "Everyone has a good laugh, I end up looking like a complete dunce for evermore."  
  
"It won't be for long," said Harry. "You'll be back to normal in no time ... and look, if it makes you feel any better ... I guess I'll have a bite too."  
  
Ron's face lit up. "You mean that?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "What have I got to lose?"  
  
"Points, dignity, respect," Ron was ticking things off on his fingers.  
  
"And if Fred and George tell everyone what you said ... then what will I lose?"  
  
"The same things. Only more so," Ron looked slightly puzzled. "Oh ... I get it, it's one of those lesser of two evils things, isn't it? I appreciate that," said Ron. "Thanks."  
  
Harry opened the paper bag, and peered inside. The biscuit really looked very appetising indeed. He wondered vaguely to himself how it actually tasted.  
  
Hermione sat down next to Ron, smiling broadly and looking very pleased with herself. She looked at them both expectantly, but neither of them said anything.  
  
"So?" said Hermione, after an awkward silence had past. "Does everyone notice how bright, cheerful and altogether bubbly I am this morning?"  
  
"Not especially," said Ron. "Why are you so bright, cheerful and bubbly ... do tell?"  
  
Hermione took a deep breath. "Well," she said. "Our timetables are up outside."  
  
"I hadn't noticed," said Ron, truthfully. "This makes you happy how exactly?"  
  
"Guess what we have first thing," said Hermione. "Potions ... with Doctor Jones. We get a chance to see how nice she probably really is."  
  
"You just refuse to ever see the bad side of a situation do you, Hermione?" said Ron. "Face it ... she will be evil ... she will be nasty ... she will take points away from us."  
  
"Only if you give her cause to," said Hermione, taking one of Ron's many pieces of toast. "Otherwise, I'm sure she'll be reasonable. Most people genuinely are."  
  
Ron and Harry exchanged knowing glances. Harry said. "Sorry, Hermione, but I don't buy it."  
  
Hermione shrugged. "Typical," she muttered, giving them both very dark looks. She finished Ron's toast, and started on another slice. Ron didn't seem to notice.  
  
The Hall was full up now ... and the air was filled with the wafting smells of fried food, and the sound of hundreds of people all trying to talk at once. Normally, it would have been most convivial. Ron, however, was feeling slightly sick now, and pushed away his toast.  
  
"I think I'm done," he said quietly.  
  
Fred and George were both staring at him. A slight smile was playing across Fred's lips. He winked at Ron.  
  
"Fair dos," said Harry, opening the bag, extracting the biscuit, and setting it down on the tablecloth between them. "Half and half?"  
  
"What's tha..." Hermione began to ask, but Ron waved his arm to cut her short.  
  
"You break, and I choose," said Harry. "Fair?"  
  
Ron nodded. He took the biscuit in his hands, and broke it roughly in half. Then he set the two halves down on the tablecloth again. Harry dawdled for a minute, then picked up the larger of the two.  
  
"Have the smaller one," hissed Ron. "This is my fault, not yours."  
  
Harry wasn't listening. He grinned slightly, and popped his half of the biscuit into his mouth. Ron did the same, and for a few seconds, everything seemed normal ... both boys chewed normally.  
  
Harry gave Ron a funny look. "Nothing's happening," he hissed.  
  
"What's going on?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Ssh, shut up," said Ron. "Shouldn't it have worked by now?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I would have thought so," he said. He didn't feel any different at all. He looked down at his arms, but there was no sign of any fur growing. Fred and George were both staring at them intently.  
  
Ron swallowed. So did Harry, still nothing happened. By now, all the other Gryffindors had turned to look at them.  
  
"You think it was a dud?" asked Ron. "Perhaps they never meant to do anything."  
  
Harry shook his head. "They don't think like that," he said. "You should know, you're their brother," he thought he heard a minuscule pop. He froze ... he felt slightly sick, though whether that was through apprehension, or some effect of the biscuit, he didn't know. Ron, however, had gone an interesting shade of green. By now, all the other tables had turned to stare at the bizarre floor show too.  
  
"I don't feel so good," said Harry.  
  
"You've gone green," said Ron. "You look like a wallpaper sample."  
  
Harry felt as if something was straining inside him ... as if his whole body was trying to burst out of its skin. He felt acid rising in his stomach, and fearing he was about to vomit, clapped his hand over his mouth. But nothing happened. His stomach was gurgling, and his whole body tingling inside. Fred and George both leaned forwards. A great silence had fallen over the entire Hall ... even some of the teachers were watching ... McGonagall was already out of her seat.  
  
Harry looked to Ron. Ron looked back, his eyes wide, as if they were about to pop out of his head. Suddenly he convulsed ... his body appeared to go into spasm, his arms and legs locking, and Harry felt the same thing happen to him. What had they done? What had they actually eaten? There was a horrible cracking sound, as if something was breaking deep within Harry's body. He closed his eyes, tightly. There was a ripping, tearing sound, a whoosh of air, and then nothing. The tingling faded. Harry opened his eyes. All around was silence. He turned to look at Ron ... but found himself staring instead into the black, beady eyes of a six foot burrowing rodent, with fur as red as Ron's hair.  
  
"Um, guys," Hermione was saying. "This may not be the best time to tell you this ... and I know it's probably really obvious and everything. But you do know you both just turned into giant hamsters, don't you?"  
  
"I noticed," said Ron the hamster.  
  
Harry nodded ... his whiskers bouncing up and down as he did so.  
  
Great gales of laughter had erupted from all around the Hall as people realised what had happened. Harry scratched himself.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" a voice asked. Both of them turned round to see. Professor McGonagall was standing over them, her hands on her hips, a look of such intense rage on her face, the like of which neither Harry nor Ron could remember seeing before.  
  
"Human Transfiguration is expressly forbidden under school rules outside of supervised classes, not to mention it is highly dangerous, potentially fatal even," Professor McGonagall went on. "What did you think you were doing?"  
  
Ron looked up. Hamsters do not easily show their emotions as facial expressions, but Harry was sure that, had he been fully human, Ron would have been looking absolutely terrified.  
  
"It was an accident, Professor," said Ron.  
  
"An accident was it, Weasley?" McGonagall repeated, her voice full of scorn. "You just ... accidentally happened to turn into hamsters, did you?"  
  
"It wasn't our fault ... it was Fred and G..." began Ron, only to be cut short again.  
  
"Your brothers, Weasley, do not appear to have turned into giant hamsters, do they?" said McGonagall, tapping her foot on the stone floor. The laughter had died away completely, and it seemed as though all of Hogwarts had temporarily halted its breakfast and turned to stare at the two of them. Harry could feel the Slytherins' eyes burning into his back.  
  
"You surely ... must see how this looks, Weasley ... Potter?"  
  
Ron nodded. "You must understand though Professor. It wasn't us!"  
  
"Cheek me again Weasley, and I will make sure your life is very uncomfortable for some time," glowered McGonagall. "I am very disappointed in the both of you. You will both see me after school for detentions ... and you will explain yourselves properly then."  
  
She took her wand out of one of the many pockets sewn, somewhat arbitrarily into her work robes, and waved it over them, muttering some words that nobody heard. Instantly, Ron turned back into his normal self, and from the looks on everyone's faces, Harry could tell he had done too.  
  
McGonagall stalked away. Ron wiped his brow on the sleeve of his robes.  
  
"That could have gone a whole lot worse couldn't it?" said Ron, turning to glare at Fred and George, who had dissolved into fits of laughter. The buzz of morning conversation in the Great Hall had slowly begun again, though this time with numerous audible laughs, stolen glances, and pointed fingers in their direction.  
  
"I'll never live it down," said Harry, glumly.  
  
**************  
  
Following the events of breakfast, neither Harry nor Ron were in much of a mood to have to face double Potions, even if it was with the ravishing, though untested Doctor Jones. They slouched along the corridor towards the dungeons, trailing in Hermione's wake, scuffing their shoes on the floor. Both of them had managed to get detentions within twelve hours of arriving at Hogwarts ... surely some kind of a record.  
  
The Slytherins were already standing outside the door to Snape's dungeon. Several of them giggled and pointed at Harry and Ron as they approached. Ron scowled at them, but to their surprise, Draco, who had been leaning against the wall, trying to look as innocent as he possibly could, stepped forwards.  
  
"Morning," he said, smiling at them.  
  
"Shove off, Malfoy," said Ron. "I'm not in the mood."  
  
"That was a classic ... at breakfast," said Draco amiably, seemingly unperturbed by Ron's remarks. He had spent most of the previous night sitting in an armchair in the Slytherin Common Room, wondering desperately how to go about his business. "They'll be talking about that for years."  
  
Pansy Parkinson stepped forwards. "Come on, Draco," he said. "What are you talking to them for?"  
  
"None of your business," said Draco, turning on her. "Who I talk to is my own affair, and I don't need telling whom I can and can't converse with."  
  
Pansy scowled, first at Draco, and then at Harry and Ron.  
  
"You might want to stop talking to us, Malfoy," said Harry. "Some of your little friends might not like it."  
  
"My little friends?" said Draco. He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the other Slytherins.  
  
"We *wouldn't* want to see you get beaten up now, would we?" added Ron, sarcastically.  
  
"I couldn't care less, frankly," said Draco, tossing a casual glance at Crabbe and Goyle. "Anyway, I'd much rather be talking to people who have more intellectual capacity than a brain dead slug," he added, praying that Crabbe and Goyle either wouldn't have heard, or wouldn't have understood.  
  
"Flattery gets you nowhere, Malfoy," scowled Harry, pointing rudely at Draco. "Least of all with me."  
  
"I'm not flattering you," said Draco. "It's the honest truth."  
  
"Draco, come away," Pansy was saying. "What's got into you?"  
  
"Shut up!" Draco rounded on her. "I'm not your obedient puppy. I answer to nobody."  
  
"Just bugger off, Draco," said Ron. "Nobody likes you, so stop trying to make us. What do you want anyway?"  
  
"You're nothing but an overgrown playground bully," said Harry, snarling. "Go pick on some five year olds!"  
  
"What is going on?" asked a voice ... a soft spoken, Welsh accent. Harry and Draco both looked up. Doctor Jones was standing before them, holding a large quantity of cardboard box files.  
  
"Nothing, Doctor Jones," said Draco, hurriedly.  
  
"It looked like rudeness and incivility to me," said Jones, fishing in her pockets for the key to the dungeon. "Before we go in, let me warn you ... I expect my students to behave politely, with courtesy and respect towards each other in my classes. I will come down like a tonne of bricks on you all if this happens again? Do I make myself understood?"  
  
The Gryffindors and Slytherins shuffled their feet nervously.  
  
"You two boys, what are your names?"  
  
"Draco," began Draco, but he was cut short.  
  
"I asked for your name boy!"  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
"And yours?"  
  
"Potter," said Harry, taking the hint.  
  
"Potter and Malfoy. I'll remember that," said Jones ... if she recognised Harry at all, she certainly wasn't showing it. "You're a Slytherin, are you not, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco nodded, sheepishly.  
  
"I thought so," said Jones. "I'll be keeping a close eye on both of you ... and if I catch either of you making trouble again, I will act. Do I make myself perfectly clear."  
  
"Yes," muttered Harry. Draco didn't say anything. He made as if to turn back to the Slytherins, but something stopped him. Somehow, he didn't want to be with them right now. He had a feeling they wouldn't be too happy with him.  
  
Doctor Jones unlocked the door, and slowly, for they were all still a bit stunned by her outburst, they followed her in. Even Hermione seemed to be regarding her new teacher with the kind of expression she reserved usually for those she really hated ... like Snape. Silently, they took their seats on the high stools next to the workbenches, and unpacked their textbooks. As they did so, Doctor Jones arranged her pens on the desk, and enchanted a piece of chalk, which proceeded to write her name on the blackboard in a neat copperplate hand.  
  
After a minute or two of absolute silence, during which you could have heard a pin drop, she spoke ... her Welsh accent lilting and hauntingly beautiful. "My name is Doctor Jones. I am a graduate of the London College of Witchcraft, and I have worked with potions, narcotics and many other things for many years. It is my intention that I shall turn out the best, and most able students in this school. I have taught potions for five years, and I can say with absolute authority that I have never failed to produce an A grade student in all that time. To do this I must insist upon having your complete attention at all times throughout my lessons. To this end I must lay down the following ground rules. There will be no chit-chat amongst yourselves ... no late or missed homework ... any insolence, rudeness or idleness. All these things I will not tolerate, and I shall punish troublemakers harshly. If you do not cross me, you will find me a benevolent mistress, but woe betide you if you do make me angry, for mighty is my wrath," at this point she glanced meaningfully at Harry, and then at Draco, who was glowing like a beetroot. Being told off in a Potions class was a new experience for him.  
  
Doctor Jones stalked down the aisle separating the Gryffindors from the Slytherins, until she reached the desk where Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville were sitting.  
  
"Just because you are Harry Potter, expect no favours from me," she said, in a low voice. Her eyes turned to Ron. "I saw that ridiculous stunt you two pulled at breakfast. The Gryffindors are evidently all troublemakers. I will be keeping an eye on you two. What's your name?"  
  
"Weasley."  
  
Jones turned, and walked slowly back down the aisle, holding her hands behind her back. When she reached the front of the class, she spoke again. "I received a letter from Professor Snape about this class," she said. "He told me to watch out for you. I do not like to base my opinions on those of one I have never met, but I am beginning to think he may have been right. You will take out your holiday essay assignments, and place them on your desks."  
  
There was a panicked rush as the entire class took out their rolls of parchment, and set them down on the workbenches ... all that is, except for two.  
  
Jones walked over to the front bench, and picked up Goyle's essay. "This looks barely adequate," she moved on.  
  
"What is this?" she asked, picking up another parchment.  
  
"My essay," Crabbe grunted.  
  
"There is a banana skin stuck to it," hissed Doctor Jones. "What are we boy ... a gorilla? See me afterwards."  
  
Draco was still blushing fiercely.  
  
"Where is your essay, Malfoy?" asked Jones, halting directly in front of him.  
  
"I didn't have time," protested Draco, feebly.  
  
"Malfoy ... we had an eight week hiatus in which to complete an essay based on material you should have covered last term with Professor Snape. How pushed for time were we, Malfoy?"  
  
"Very pushed?" lied Draco.  
  
"Oh yes ... did we go away on holiday?" asked Jones. Draco was quivering .. it was amazing how much she reminded him of his Father.  
  
"I went to South Africa for three weeks," said Draco, sullenly.  
  
"I hope we got a nice tan," said Jones, with false sincerity. "Tell me, Malfoy ... what is eight minus three?"  
  
"Five."  
  
"Exactly. That leaves us with five weeks in which to finish our essay. Were we so pushed for time we couldn't manage?"  
  
Draco didn't dare tell her that he had only started it the night before term started, and as he had forgotten the work, had not been able to finish. He had been worrying about it ever since, and now it looked as though his worries were well founded.  
  
"I was very pushed. I have a very busy life," said Draco, not fully aware of how feeble he was sounding.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, Malfoy," said Jones. She looked up, and addressed the rest of the class. "The Malfoys clearly live an endless round of hedonistic parties they have little time for anything else, because they are nursing their bloody hangovers. However it changes nothing. I had you marked down as trouble the moment I set eyes on you. It appears my thoughts were justified. You will lose Slytherin fifteen points, and you will do a detention for me."  
  
"Yes," said Draco, looking at his feet.  
  
"Did anybody else 'forget' to do the work," said Jones, stalking once more up the aisle to where Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting. Hermione coughed slightly and tried to hide her hands under the bench. It was at that point that Harry and Ron both noticed she had not taken out her essay.  
  
"I see the troublemaker's table has excelled itself once more," said Jones. "What is your name girl?"  
  
"Hermione," began Hermione.  
  
"If I had wanted to know your Christian name, I would have asked for it," hissed Jones. "I say again ... what is your name?"  
  
"Granger."  
  
"Miss Granger ... where pray, is your essay?"  
  
All eyes in the class were on Hermione ... all faces a mask of shock and disbelief. Hermione? Hadn't done her homework? Both Harry and Ron were staring at her as though she had just transfigured into Snape. If Ron's mouth could have opened any wider, he'd have been able to swallow a whole hippogriff.  
  
"I forgot it," said Hermione.  
  
"How truly horrible for you," mocked Jones, in a nasty tone of voice. "You must be devastated. Professor Snape mentioned you in his letter. Too clever by half, he said ... insufferable know it all, he said. I see we think we are so superior we can miss assignments as and when we choose to."  
  
"I don't think that," said Hermione, weakly.  
  
"Granger, you will likewise lose fifteen points from Gryffindor, and you will do a detention with Malfoy after dinner. My office," she turned to the rest of the class, who were glued to their stools. "Anybody else?" she asked, in a tone suggesting 'just you dare.'  
  
Nobody said anything. Jones picked up Harry's parchment. "I see the world famous Mr Potter has managed to get his work done. You are an inspiration to Malfoy and Granger. How did you manage it with all the signing tours?" she sneered. Harry looked away ... barely able to believe someone he found so beautiful could possibly be so nasty. "I see Weasley has done his too. How nice. This parchment is shoddy, Weasley ... can we not afford decent paper?"  
  
Ron scowled.  
  
The assignments collected, she went back down to the front of the class, and began to write on the blackboard. The rest of the lesson passed in stunned silence, as they chopped, ground, and mixed their ingredients. Doctor Jones herself moved slowly and silently around the dungeon, like a human Stealth bomber ... you never knew when or where she would pop up next, although it was always just as someone was committing some minor error. After what seemed like an age, the bell tolled for morning break, and they gratefully left the classroom.  
  
**************  
  
Draco followed Harry, Ron and Hermione without trying to make it too obvious that that was what he was doing, having told Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle that he was going to use the toilet. He caught up with them outside Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.  
  
"Wait up," he breathed. "I want a word."  
  
The other three turned to look at him.  
  
"For God's sake, Malfoy. Can't you just leave us alone for one second?" sighed Harry. "Must you be forever popping up?"  
  
"I just wanted to say sorry," said Draco.  
  
Ron snorted. "Huh ... what for?"  
  
"For getting Harry into trouble with Doctor Jones. I didn't mean anything to happen."  
  
Harry stared at Draco incredulously. "Why should you be saying sorry?" he asked. "I was the one being rude to you!"  
  
Draco shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said. "Honestly ... water off a duck's back."  
  
Harry stared at him in even greater disbelief. "Malfoy, what is the matter with you?"  
  
"Who cares!" interrupted Ron, stepping between the two of them. "Run along back to Daddy, You-Know-Who's little slave!" he hissed.  
  
Draco scowled at Ron. "My Father is not in league with Voldemort," he said. Ron looked shocked.  
  
"Get lost, Malfoy. I saw him!" said Harry, looking mortally offended, and with good reason too, thought Draco. "He was there! You're just as bad. I don't know what you want from us, but you're not getting it!"  
  
"Just sod off, why don't you?" said Hermione. All three of them were staring at Draco as though he were something sticky someone had brought in on the bottom of a shoe.  
  
"Okay, I'm going," said Draco, defeated again. "But I'm not pretending I'm not insulted by your rudeness," he turned on his heels, and stalked off the way he had come.  
  
"I swear I'll do something I might regret to that boy if he doesn't keep on harassing us," said Ron, as they resumed walking towards the Gryffindor Common Room.  
  
Hermione, on the other hand, looked slightly as though she was in some kind of a trance ... there seemed to be a dreamlike quality to her eyes.  
  
"Is there something wrong?" asked Harry.  
  
Hermione smiled at him. "No ... I was just thinking about ... things," she said.  
  
"What things?" asked Ron, suspiciously. "Not Draco Malfoy?"  
  
"Hermione, you promised," said Harry.  
  
"Well, kind of about, Malfoy," said Hermione. "I was wondering why he was trying to get in with us."  
  
"Isn't it obvious?" asked Harry. "He's only interested in you. He's smitten! Just ignore him if he tries to speak to you again."  
  
"I'm not really sure that I can," said Hermione.  
  
"Oh please, say you don't fancy him as well?" groaned Harry.  
  
Hermione considered this for a moment. Then she said. "Well, I won't pretend he isn't handsome."  
  
"So you think he's good looking?" said Ron.  
  
"I ... I suppose so," said Hermione, unsurely. "He has nice eyes, and hair."  
  
"We *all* have eyes and hair," said Ron. "Look at Harry, it's practically all he is!"  
  
"He has a nice nose too, and, and, he does always dress nicely."  
  
"Spare me the sodding details," moaned Harry.  
  
"And I think he has a nice bottom," said Hermione.  
  
"Hermione," said Harry, calmly. "I'm starting to think whatever it is has got Draco has got you too. Have you eaten anything odd recently?"  
  
"I had stuffed vine leaves in Greece," said Hermione. "But it can't have been that. Anyway, I could never love Draco."  
  
"Why not ... the way you describe it sounds as if you fancy the arse off him already," said Ron.  
  
"He's horrible," said Hermione. "He's hateful ... he's nasty, he's a bully, and he's so bloody self obsessed. He thinks he oozes charisma ... when he doesn't. I bet he spends hours in front of the mirror in the mornings, posing."  
  
All three of them made a face at the thought of Draco posing in front of a mirror.  
  
"So you see," said Hermione, when they had stopped. "Even if Draco does think he's in love with me, I'm not in love with him, and I never will be, and there's and end to it."  
  
**************  
  
Draco pushed open the door, and slipped quietly into the Slytherin Common Room. To his surprise it was almost empty ... he assumed all the others must be outside, playing and chatting in the warm sunshine. He was just about to flop down in a chair and get his breath back, for he had run all the way back, when he noticed four people standing in the far corner of the room.  
  
"Hello," he said, brightly. The people stepped out of the shadows. They were Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and Blaise Zabini. All four of them were wearing angry scowls. Draco gulped.  
  
"Hello, Draco," said Pansy. "We'd, well, we've been talking, amongst ourselves."  
  
"As you do," said Blaise, rubbing his hands together  
  
Pansy nodded, "And we decided we wanted a little word with you."  
  
"Fire away," said Draco. "I'm all ears."  
  
"We want to ask you some questions, Draco," hissed Pansy, coming closer to him.  
  
"Along what lines, exactly?" asked Draco.  
  
"Along the lines of ... why have you started consorting with those filthy Gryffindors?"  
  
"What Gryffindors?"  
  
"Come off it, Draco ... it was blindingly obvious. You were talking to all three of them ... Potter, Weasley, and you were making eyes at that Mudblood Granger. I've never seen more obvious ogling."  
  
"Say what you will ... I was not looking at Hermione," protested Draco.  
  
"What's the matter, Draco? Aren't I good enough for you. Decided you want to get your kicks somewhere else?" asked Pansy, she was right up close to him now.  
  
"I don't know what you mean," said Draco, even though he did ... kind of.  
  
Pansy smiled, and ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. "Do you think I'm pretty, Draco?"  
  
Draco smiled, and nodded. "After a fashion, yes," he lied. "I took you to the Yule Ball, didn't I?"  
  
"Only because Krum took Granger," said Pansy. "What's she got that I haven't?"  
  
Draco fumed. "I do not fancy Hermione ... I do not even like He ..."  
  
"So you're calling her Hermione now, are you?" said Pansy. "Is that where you went last night, sneaking off to meet up with her?"  
  
"Where I went last night is no business of yours," said Draco. In truth, he had broken into Snape's dungeon to grind up the leaves of the dragon trees ... Chaldean had told him the potion was more effective if the leaves were ground first.  
  
"It is my business, if I choose to make it my business," said Pansy. "Don't tell me you've turned traitor on us. Don't tell me you're abandoning Slytherin?"  
  
If that's what it takes, thought Draco. Crabbe and Goyle were cracking their knuckles, and Draco suddenly felt very afraid indeed. He had never been in a proper fight, that is, one without Crabbe and Goyle to back him up, before.  
  
"I hadn't even begun to speculate," said Draco. "You *have* to believe me."  
  
Crabbe and Goyle now stepped forwards. Draco took a step backwards. Pansy was grinning, an evil grin, showing off her perfect teeth to perfection. Before he could react, Crabbe and grabbed him round the neck. Draco kicked out ... his toe connected with Goyle's knee, and his foot exploded with pain.  
  
"What do you want me to tell you?" squeaked Draco.  
  
"That you haven't turned traitor, Draco, that's all," said Pansy.  
  
"I haven't!"  
  
"But we don't believe you," said Pansy. Crabbe's vice like grip around his neck was tightening. "Goyle, I believe you have something to say?"  
  
Goyle was pummelling his fist in his other hand. "My Father," he said. "Always told me that turncoats didn't deserve to live. He always told me about my Great-Uncle, George Goyle. Know what happened to him?"  
  
"No?" squeaked Draco.  
  
"He was a turncoat ... he ran away from the army, during the War. He got executed," Goyle pronounced this last word slowly, and quietly, enunciating every syllable. "Seems to me like you're going the same way."  
  
"But I'm not," said Draco.  
  
"Don't give me that," scowled Goyle. "You always thought I was your friend, didn't you?"  
  
Draco tried to nod, but Crabbe's grip was too strong. "I helped you out," he said. "Think of all the times I helped you out ... you wouldn't have passed the First Year exams if it hadn't been for me!"  
  
"I'm not just a pretty face," hissed Goyle. "I'm not stupid either. I can tell what you've been saying about me ... I do know. You think I'm thick as two short planks don't you?"  
  
"Not at all!" Draco felt like he was beginning to choke.  
  
"All those times ... you never liked me ... you were always going behind my back. Do you remember when my Dad used to bring me round to play? Do you know what I remember ... I remember a horrible, spoiled little brat who wouldn't share any of his toys."  
  
"You go, Goyle," goaded Pansy.  
  
"I wanted so badly to be your friend, Draco ... but you'd never let me. Do you know how that made me feel?"  
  
"Not really."  
  
"It made me very angry, Draco ... very angry indeed," said Goyle. "Now this is what I'm going to do. Do you remember the time we went to boxing classes? You got me on the chin with an uppercut, knocked out three of my baby teeth and put me in hospital. You thought I never learned anything there. But I did. Do you want me to show you what I learned?" he asked.  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
Goyle drew back his fist, and punched Draco hard in the face. Draco screamed in pain, as he felt Goyle's hand connect with his nose ... heard the loud crack as it broke, and felt the numbness in his mouth. He could taste blood.  
  
"That's your classic blow to the face," said Goyle. "Then there's this. Technically speaking, this one's illegal, but I don't give a toss."  
  
He punched Draco in the stomach. Draco yelled again ... there was a sickening sound as his fist made contact.  
  
"Then there are the other blows, to the upper body, to the side of the head, and of course, to the groin area."  
  
Draco tried to stop himself crying as Crabbe and Goyle went to work on him. He raised his arms to shield himself from the blows, but they were knocked violently out of the way. He couldn't stop the tears from pouring down his face. He hadn't cried since ... he could remember. That one time ... his Father had beaten it into him, and the six year old Draco had cowered on the floor, sniffing, wailing and bleeding. He could even remember his Father's words. "British boys never blub Draco. You never cry, never let down your defences for an instant. Fight clean ... fight fair, use your fists, not weapons, and never, ever hit a chap when he's down." Then his Father had hit him again.  
  
**************  
  
Draco didn't turn up to lunch, or dinner, though as they weren't exactly looking for him, neither Harry, Ron or Hermione noticed. After dinner was over, the three of them went their separate ways ... Harry and Ron to Professor McGonagall's study, and Hermione down the dank stairway to Snape's office.  
  
She knocked timidly on the door. A voice said. "Come in," but it didn't sound like Doctor Jones.  
  
He peered round the door. Draco was already there, sitting in a chair in front of Snape's heavy desk, which was now covered in untidy papers. Evidently Doctor Jones had been making herself at home. Hermione noticed there were large cardboard boxes, full of what looked like documents, stacked all around the room. It was Draco, however, that got her attention. His nose and face were bruised, and he was sporting a massive black eye. His left arm was in a sling.  
  
"What happened to you?" asked Hermione, momentarily forgetting she was morally opposed to Draco.  
  
"It's nothing," said Draco. "Have a seat. She'll be here in a minute."  
  
Hermione sat down in the other chair, noticing for the first time a photograph of Snape as a boy on one of the highest shelves. The boy looked exactly how he had been described to her. He had lank, greasy hair, and a pointed nose. He was scowling.  
  
The door opened, and Doctor Jones came in, clutching a sheaf of papers under one arm. She dumped them on the desk, sat down, opened a drawer, and withdrew a packet of chocolate digestives.  
  
"I hope you both know why you're here?" she said, rustling as she opened the packet.  
  
They nodded, as one.  
  
"Because you broke school rules," said Doctor Jones. "As I told you, I am not very pleasant when students break rules. I don't like it much. It's a little thing, but there you go. The fact is, you are both in detention, isn't it?"  
  
Hermione nodded. Draco, however, was staring sullenly at a large, spreading stain on the ceiling.  
  
"So this is what I want you two to do for me," said Jones, slyly sliding a biscuit from the packet, and popping it whole into her mouth. She chewed for a moment, then swallowed. "When I took up the post of Potions Mistress here at Hogwarts, I brought with me rather a lot of old papers from my previous line of work. You noticed the boxes?"  
  
"Yes, we did," said Hermione.  
  
"They are somewhat disorderly boxes," said Jones. The documents within must be sorted, and filed in those cabinets," there were two of them, gun metal grey filing cabinets, such as you would find in any office or school. Hermione could never remember having seen any at Hogwarts before. Jones popped another biscuit into her mouth. When she had finished, she went on. "I will be back in two hours to check upon your progress. Touch nothing else."  
  
She stood up, stuffed the packet of biscuits into the pocket of her robes, as if she was worried about them stealing some, and stalked out of the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
"I suppose we'd better get going," said Draco. "She's horrible isn't she?"  
  
"Don't dare try and pull any psychological tricks on me, Draco," hissed Hermione. "Especially not the shared adversity one. Just because we have a detention together, doesn't make me feel any different about hating your guts."  
  
"Sorry," said Draco, as though he genuinely meant it. He eased himself, a little unsteadily, out of his chair.  
  
"What did happen to you?" asked Hermione, lifting the lid off one of the boxes. Lying on top were several important looking papers, each stamped with a picture of a dragon, and bearing the inscription I.A.M.R. There was also what looked like an Inland Revenue tax return form from 1978.  
  
"It was nothing. I don't want to talk about it," said Draco. He pulled a handful of papers out of one of the boxes. "Hey," he said. "These are really old."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"They're dated," said Draco, waving the documents in the air. "Listen to this. Institute of Advanced Magical Research. Status Report for October 30th 1981. Subject Species: Common Welsh Green. Subject Name: Damien. It is my opinion that this dra ... "  
  
"It's private," said Hermione. "You shouldn't be reading that."  
  
Draco ignored her, and went on. "It is my opinion that this dragon is becoming increasingly hard to control. Damien is restless and is refusing food. Two handlers have already been injured. It is my recommendation that this specimen be transferred immediately to the Godric's Hollow Dragon Centre, where staff will be better able to deal with the situation."  
  
"Where's Godric's Hollow?" asked Hermione. "I know that name, though I can't think where from."  
  
"It's somewhere in Cumbria, it's a magical village ... like Hogsmeade," said Draco. "I thought she worked with plants and stuff, not dragons."  
  
"Maybe she was transferred," said Hermione. She was reading one of the documents, a cutting, taken from a newspaper. "Hey, any idea what Dracaena Draco is?"  
  
Draco froze. How could she possibly know? "Come again?" he asked.  
  
"Whatever it is, it's illegal," said Hermione. "Listen to this. It's from the Daily Prophet. November 6th 1981. The Department of Magical Drugs and Narcotics today announced they had seized quantities of the plant, Dracaena Draco, commonly known as the Dragon Tree, made illegal in 1966, from two addresses in the UK. The haul, with a street value of approximately five thousand Galleons, was found in raids on two properties, one belonging to Mr Artemis Chaldean, of 66, Berkeley Place, London, and the other belonging to Mr Iolanthe Hitchcock, of 4, Fielding Road, Godric's Hollow, scene of the recent," she stopped, took a deep breath. "Of the recent defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named, in which the Potter family tragically perished. Both men are under investigation by this Department for possession of a Class A hallucinogenic drug, which has been linked to Death Eater activities within the past eight months. Chaldean and Hitchcock, who have already been cleared of suspected involvement in the recent crisis, are now under fresh interrogation. A spokesman said. 'We are releasing no further details at this time.'"  
  
Draco was staring at her, open mouthed. "Why would she have left that at the top of the pile?"  
  
Hermione ignored him ... she was pocketing the cutting.  
  
"What are you doing? She'll notice it's gone!" said Draco, aghast.  
  
"You didn't see me do this, right?" said Hermione. "You didn't see the cutting, I read nothing to you ... it must have just got lost. If you breathe a word of this to anybody, Draco Malfoy, I'll see to it you end up writhing on the floor in indescribable agony. Got that?"  
  
Draco nodded, meekly.  
  



	4. The Trials Of Draco

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
DISCLAIMER  
  
Most of the recognisable characters, concepts and locations referenced in Dracaena Draco belong completely to J.K. Rowling and other production companies. I own none of it ... except the plot, obviously.  
  
PART FOUR. THE TRIALS OF DRACO.  
  
To say that Hermione's curiosity had been aroused by the article she had found whilst clearing out Doctor Jones' office would be to make a gross understatement. The very next day, which as luck would have it was a Sunday, she disappeared off to the Library straight after breakfast, and didn't appear until dinnertime. Harry and Ron were not especially perturbed by this ... Hermione seemed to spend most of her free time in the Library anyway. At dinner that evening, she barely spoke a word to either of them ... and instead kept glancing across the Hall in the direction of the Slytherin table, where Draco was sitting, looking utterly miserable. Occasionally the others kept flicking bits of food at him. Neither Harry nor Ron had actually noticed that Draco appeared to be in a state of some anguish ... he had taken to wandering the castle on his own, without even Crabbe and Goyle. Hermione, however, was beginning to get worried about him, and secretly was hoping this didn't mean she was attracted only to vulnerable men.  
  
Monday morning saw an area of low pressure moving in from the Atlantic, bringing with it thick, grey clouds and pouring rain. Their first class that morning was Care of Magical Creatures, with Hagrid's replacement, the mysterious Xavier Wilmot, whom nobody had actually seen. As bad luck would have it, the Gryffindors and Slytherins had once again been put together, and so, at a quarter past nine, they dutifully pulled on wellingtons and waterproofs to squelch down the hill to Hagrid's little hut ... only to find that Xavier Wilmot had moved them inside due to the inclement climate.  
  
Xavier Wilmot turned out to be a tall, lanky figure with a beard so thick that it looked ... to them, almost unreal. He was grinning broadly at them, and there was a certain glint in his wide, staring eyes that seemed very familiar to Harry, who was sure he had seen the face somewhere before. He was about to open his mouth to speak, but Wilmot chose that moment to call for silence.  
  
"Sorry about the weather," he began ... his voice gruff and faintly unnerving. "I was planning on doing a little outdoor practical work today, but we seem to have been thwarted. Anyway," he looked around the assembled class, and Harry, for the briefest of seconds, could have sworn that his gaze alighted on him. Of course he was used to it ... everyone who met him couldn't help being interested ... on Harry's first day, Professor Flitwick had got so excited he fell off his chair. This time, however, Harry looked hurriedly away. "My name is Xavier Wilmot, and in the absence of your usual teacher, I will be taking your Care of Magical Creatures class this term. We will be beginning work that will lead you up to your OWL's, probably the singularly most important exams you will take at Hogwarts. It will be your OWL's that decide your future career prospects, as well as what subjects you will choose to study to advanced level, for your NEWT's, at the end of the Upper Sixth Form ... so I really cannot impress on you the importance of the coming months," Harry was certain Wilmot was looking at him again. He shuffled his feet nervously.  
  
"We will be starting this term with work on tricorns. A tricorn, as I am sure you by now know from your holiday reading," again, he cast his eyes across the class. Harry had done the holiday reading, but he noticed that both Draco and Ron were looking at the floor, nervously. "Is a close relative of the unicorn, distinguishable by three horns on its head ... instead of the usual one, hence the name. Can anybody tell me why tricorns are so rare?"  
  
Hermione's hand was already in the air.  
  
"Hermione?" said Wilmot, turning to her. This struck Harry as being slightly odd, for he hadn't actually been told any of their names yet. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.  
  
"They were hunted to the verge of extinction last century," said Hermione. "Their horns possess healing powers, and there is no stigma associated with killing them ... as there is with unicorns."  
  
"Correct," said Wilmot. "Two points to Gryffindor. Can anybody tell me where they are to be found in the wild?"  
  
Hermione was waving her hand about in the air, but this time, Wilmot passed her by. "Harry?"  
  
Harry, who hadn't been listening, gave a start, and looked up. "Sorry, sir?"  
  
"Were you listening to a word I was saying?" asked Wilmot. "Where do tricorns live in the wild?"  
  
"Spain?" guessed Harry ... his curiosity again awakened as to exactly how Wilmot knew his name, when to the best of his knowledge; he had not actually been told it.  
  
Wilmot shook his head. "Be thankful I'm not taking points from Gryffindor, Harry ... you of all people must be aware of the need to pay attention in your lessons. Hermione? Enlighten us please."  
  
"Central Asia," said Hermione. "The Pamir and Hindu Kush mountain ranges, Iran, as well as in the former Soviet republics of Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan."  
  
"That is correct," said Wilmot. "Thank you, Hermione. What properties do the horns possess? Ron Weasley, perhaps?"  
  
Ron, who had been surreptitiously picking his nose, looked up. "Are they good for rheumatism?" he asked, sounding unsure of himself.  
  
"That, and two other things," said Wilmot. "When mixed with certain other ingredients, the powdered horn can be made into a potion that can cure most known diseases of the central nervous system, and this is why tricorns were, and remain, so valuable. It has one other use too. Can anybody tell me what this might be?"  
  
Hermione waved her arm in the air again. "It can be used as part of the Ancestral Potion," she said. "To recall the spirits of your distant ancestors. Many wizards used it in the past to give themselves strength during duels and battles. The potion forms an integral part of the Ancestral Rite, which must be performed to complete the spell. It's one of those dual action things. You need to do both parts to make it work."  
  
"Well done," said Wilmot, looking considerably impressed with her. "I suggest you all read the set texts, as Hermione here clearly already has done. You may take another two points for Gryffindor."  
  
Hermione looked very pleased. Wilmot continued to speak. "You therefore see exactly why as of 1980, there were only two hundred and fifty known specimens in the wild, as well as two further specimens resident at the Institute for Advanced Magical Research, where I worked with them until their death five years ago. Since then, their numbers, under careful stewardship and close co-operation between the British and the Iranians, have risen to something approximating two thousand, which is pretty good going. Most of these specimens range across the Al Ashka Preservation, in the remote Iranian interior, a protected area, and one very hard for Muggles to access. Now, as you may already have been told, I worked for some years at the Institute for Advanced Magical Research, where I was daily in contact with these magnificent beasts. The first thing it is important to know about a tricorn, is never ... ever to get between a mother and her foals. The horns are very, very sharp indeed, and men have been disembowelled by angry female tricorns before now ... I have witnessed it happen, and it is not a pretty sight. If a tricorn believes it is being threatened in any way, it will without hesitation charge. If this happens to you, there is not a lot you can do ... it's partly why the Institute insist we signed disclaimers before we began our work on them ..."  
  
The class weren't entirely sure if this was a joke or not ... one or two of the Slytherins tittered slightly. The Gryffindors, on the other hand, were hanging onto Wilmot's every utterance ... all except for Harry, who was trying to figure out why Wilmot's face seemed so familiar to him. Maybe he should stop behind afterwards and ask him. He resolved to check his photo album at morning break, to see if he couldn't be spotted in any of his parents' wedding photos.  
  
The lesson ended promptly at eleven fifteen ... and after two hours in the classroom, which by now was filled with a thick fug of condensation, they were all relieved to be let out. Harry waited until everybody else had filed out, before approaching Wilmot's desk. Wilmot looked up at the sound of his approach, and smiled.  
  
"We meet again, Harry," he said. "I wanted a word with you, as it happens. Have you got a couple of minutes?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Shut the door will you?" asked Wilmot. "I don't especially want anybody to see this."  
  
Harry gave him a funny look, but closed the classroom door anyway. "How did you know my name?" he asked.  
  
"Everybody knows your name," said Wilmot. "It wasn't especially difficult for me to work out who you are. Actually, it was laughably easy."  
  
"And Hermione and Ron?" asked Harry.  
  
"I've met them before," said Wilmot. "Actually, you don't know it, but you've all met me before. Take a seat," he gestured to the teacher's chair. Harry sat down on the edge of it, whilst Wilmot perched himself on the edge of the desk.  
  
"I'm wondering, Harry," said Wilmot, "just why you decided to stop behind after everyone and see me?"  
  
Harry could feel himself blushing. "I ... I," he began. "I, it's, er, nothing really."  
  
"Isn't it?"  
  
"Well, that is ... it'll sound really stupid," said Harry. "You'll only laugh at me."  
  
"Promise not to," said Wilmot, grinning cheekily, his features almost childlike. Evidently something was affording him great amusement. "Seriously. I won't laugh at you ... I swear on Snape's life."  
  
Harry smiled. "I thought you looked familiar," he said, quietly. "I wanted to ask you whether I knew you from somewhere else. Are you in any of my photos ... of my Mum and Dad?"  
  
"I already answered that question," said Wilmot. "We've met several times, Harry ... and yes, I am in several of the photos."  
  
"That explains it," said Harry, looking relieved. He was assuming that Wilmot meant he had met Harry as a baby, before Voldemort's attack on his parents. "Well, if that's it, I think I should be going. Ron and Hermione will be waiting for me."  
  
"Don't go yet," said Wilmot. "Don't you want to know how I knew your parents ... or why you think I look so familiar?"  
  
Harry paused, he was halfway out of his seat. "Go on then," he said, curiously.  
  
"I know your parents because I went to school with them," began Wilmot. "Your Father and I were very good friends."  
  
"Nobody ever mentioned you to me," said Harry, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.  
  
Wilmot smiled indulgently at Harry, in a manner Harry found strangely settling. He felt, though he didn't know why, a strange affinity with Xavier Wilmot ... it honestly seemed as though he knew him already. "I didn't always go by the name Xavier Wilmot," said Wilmot. "That is a pseudonym ... there is no such person, well," he paused, "actually there is. He was my maternal grandfather ... he taught Charms here, a very long time ago, back in the fifties anyway. Do you want to know my real name?"  
  
"Go on," said Harry.  
  
Wilmot's face cracked into a broad smile. "You honestly don't recognise me do you?" he said. "Is it so obvious, even with the beard?"  
  
"That's a fake beard?"  
  
Wilmot shook his head. "No," he said. "This is all my own work ... a couple of growth charms, and you too can have a full set of whiskers in the time it takes the average man to shave in the mornings," he sounded like a TV commercial.  
  
Harry, who wasn't shaving yet, couldn't have hazarded a guess as to how long that was ... he felt his chin self consciously.  
  
"I am frankly amazed, Harry, that you can't see past my disguise," said Wilmot. "If I told you that my real name was Sirius Black ... would that help?"  
  
Harry fell off his chair.  
  
**************  
  
He woke up in the hospital wing, with concerned faces peering at him, though without his glasses, he couldn't make out who they were. His head was aching something terrible. It felt like somebody was setting off a jackhammer inside his skull.  
  
"What happened to me?" he asked, the pain in his head throbbing.  
  
"You fell off your chair and cracked your head on the desk," said a blob shaped a bit like Ron.  
  
"Am I okay?" asked Harry, feeling his head gingerly. There was a large piece of sticky plaster on his forehead.  
  
"You're fine, I think," said the possibly-Ron.  
  
"Mild concussion," said Hermione's voice. Harry assumed it was indeed, Hermione.  
  
"Could I have my glasses, do you think?" he asked.  
  
The probably-Hermione handed him his glasses, and he put them on gratefully. The blobs materialised into, perhaps not surprisingly under the circumstances, Ron and Hermione.  
  
"Where's Sirius?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron looked to Hermione, an expression of extreme puzzlement on his face. "Sirius? Sirius isn't here, Harry."  
  
"He must have hit his head harder than Mr Wilmot thought," said Hermione. It dawned on Harry that, of course, they had no idea of Wilmot's true identity. He supposed he probably shouldn't tell them what Sirius had said. If it really was Sirius. Perhaps he'd just imagined it. He shivered ... a chill rushed down his spine. Was he going nuts?  
  
"It's nothing, don't worry about me," said Harry, his voice still sounding, to him, slightly woozy. "What time is it?"  
  
"About a quarter past one," said Hermione. "You were out for nearly three hours, we were starting to worry about you."  
  
Harry heard a familiar voice in the distance, talking to Madam Pomfrey. He sat up in bed. It was Wilmot, or rather, Sirius ... that is, as long as he hadn't been dreaming. He turned to Ron, who had turned to see what was going on.  
  
" ... nevertheless," Sirius was saying. "I would like to speak to him."  
  
"The boy needs rest," Madam Pomfrey was protesting. This was generally her standard protest whenever anybody tried to visit anybody else in the hospital wing. Sirius, however, seemed to have other ideas.  
  
"He looks fine to me," said Sirius, pushing past her into the room. "Harry, are you feeling any better?"  
  
"He was going on about Sirius Black," said Hermione. Sirius couldn't help but grin. "You wouldn't have any idea why would you?"  
  
"Why on Earth would Harry be going on about a convicted felon? He's probably still a bit shaken up, that's all," said Sirius. "Why don't you two run along and get some lunch. I'd like a word with Harry."  
  
"We'll see you later," said Hermione, she ruffled Harry's hair in what she thought was a friendly sort of way, though in truth, Harry found it very irritating when people did that sort of thing to him. Never having been treated as children should be, it irked him when people did try and treat him like a little kid. She and Ron ducked out of the way, and left the ward, their footsteps echoing on the hard floors as they receded into the distance. The window above Harry's bed was open slightly, and Harry could hear the far off cawing of an unseen rook, somewhere in one of Hogwarts' myriad of towers. Sirius drew the curtains around Harry's bed, and sat down on the end of it, missing Harry's feet by inches.  
  
"This has to be some sort of record, Harry," he began. "You've got yourself into hospital within three days of the start of term. Even for you that's a fairly impressive start. Congratulations."  
  
"I won't have to stay overnight will I?" asked Harry. It was all very well spending time in the Hospital Wing, but it didn't half get lonely at night in there.  
  
Sirius shook his head. "I imagine you'll be well enough to go back to lessons as soon as lunch break is over. You have transfiguration this afternoon I believe, with Professor McGonagall?"  
  
Harry nodded, he wasn't sure of his own timetable yet, but that sounded about right.  
  
"You'd better be ready for that," said Sirius. He raised his voice in a cruel yet accurate impression of Harry's Head of House. "The fact that you've been out cold in the hospital wing for most of this morning doesn't mean you can skip lessons as and when you choose," Sirius smiled, as if recalling a long forgotten memory. "She said that to your Father once ... under almost exactly the same circumstances as well."  
  
"What happened?" asked Harry.  
  
"He got clobbered by the Whomping Willow," said Sirius. "It was Remus' time of the month, and he was sneaking back from the Shrieking Shack one morning ... well, I expect you can probably guess the rest."  
  
Harry nodded. "Can I ask you something?" he asked.  
  
"Go ahead, make my day," said Sirius.  
  
"How come you're suddenly teaching at Hogwarts?" asked Harry. "Shouldn't you still be on the run?"  
  
"I take it you've not been keeping in touch with events over the summer," said Sirius, mysteriously.  
  
Harry shook his head. "The Dursleys were stopping my post. I didn't even get any birthday cards."  
  
"Not even from me?" asked Sirius, looking annoyed.  
  
Harry shook his head again. "Not even from you," he said.  
  
"That truly takes the Huntley and Palmers! Bloody hell, Harry. I swear, I swear to God I'll help you get them back," said Sirius, clenching his fists in barely concealed rage at the nerve of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. "One of these days, I'm going to go over there, and teach them a lesson they won't forget in a hurry. I spent fifty galleons on that birthday present too. What is more, I had to go through the indignity of asking the woman in the cake shop to write 'Happy Birthday Harry' on your cake," he shuddered. "She kept winking at me too."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't want you to go to any trouble."  
  
Sirius smiled. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "Pity about the present though. Wonder what happened to it?"  
  
"It probably ended up in the dustbin," said Harry. "But you were going to tell me something. Stop going off message."  
  
"You sound just like Fudge," said Sirius, indulgently. "Actually, fitting I should mention him. Fudge is to blame for all these shenanigans. You remember he was talking to Dumbledore, when we were in the hospital wing? End of last term," to Harry, he seemed to be skirting saying anything that might upset him. Nobody had dared mention Cedric Diggory's death to him, when in truth, it would have made him feel a lot better if they had.  
  
"Yeah, go on."  
  
"Dumbledore told him, in no uncertain terms, what to do ... you remember what he said?"  
  
"Keep talking."  
  
"Yes, indeed, anyway. So, Fudge didn't take a blind bit of notice, so Dumbledore decided he had to rely on us, instead of him. Everyone was very busy for some weeks. Snape, well, Snape was a spy in the olden days ... for our side, against Voldemort."  
  
"Dumbledore told me that," said Harry. "Did he ..."  
  
"Try to contact Voldemort?" asked Sirius. "Yes, that's exactly what he did. Only problem is, nobody has seen hide nor hair of him since July."  
  
"He's not on sabbatical then?"  
  
"Of course not," said Sirius. "The same goes for Hagrid ... he had to go and try to contact the giants. We could do with having them on side this time round. Nobody actually knows what became of Hagrid either. The rumour mill has gone into overdrive of course. There are some people, high up in the Ministry, Cornelius Fudge and Lucius Malfoy amongst them, who believe Hagrid went over to the Dark Side, and are doing as much as they can to spread that view around the Ministry. Anyway, that's as much as I know about them. I was up and down the country all summer, mobilising people who we think might be friendly to our cause. Anyway, in mid-August, Dumbledore offered me a post here. It's probably the safest place for me to hide out under the circumstances, and I happen to have experience with magical creatures. So here I am ... here we are."  
  
"Is it really as bad as it sounds?" asked Harry.  
  
"You tell me," said Sirius. "You met Voldemort last summer. You were there. If he really is back, and I've never hoped more that you are mistaken, Harry, things will, to quote your Father, 'shortly be getting rather rough.' As it goes, you are our only witness ... you are all we have to go on. That's why it's so vital this year that you don't do anything stupid."  
  
"Like what?" asked Harry, he had a sinking feeling that as he had done last year, Sirius was about to start lecturing him about what he was and wasn't allowed to do ... something Harry had taken with a considerable pinch of salt, as Sirius had successfully broken almost every school rule ever written during his time at Hogwarts, including the one regarding use of wooden cutlery on Fridays, a hangover from the days of Rowena Ravenclaw.  
  
"No sneaking around at night, Harry. Definitely no unsupervised trips into Hogsmeade, with or without the Invisibility Cloak. Dumbledore's writ doesn't extend beyond the school boundaries, so if anything should happen to you, he wouldn't be able to help you there."  
  
"I can look after myself," Harry glowered at Sirius. "I stood up to Voldemort, didn't I?"  
  
"But next time, you might not be so lucky," said Sirius. "I don't want you to take any chances this year, Harry. Neither does Dumbledore. That's why we're going to have to come down very hard on any rule breaking on your part."  
  
"That's not fair!" said Harry.  
  
"Would you rather we let you out to die, or would you rather we did our best to keep you safe?" asked Sirius. "People out there are looking for you, Harry. They'll do anything to try and find you ... they could even be close by now. If you help us by staying where somebody can see you, we can help you. You can choose to be selfish of course ... it's up to you, but don't expect us to help you then. Perhaps it would be best if you gave me the cloak for safe keeping."  
  
He was referring, of course, to Harry's precious Invisibility Cloak, which had been handed down from his Father, along with the Marauder's Map, a tatty old piece of parchment penned by Sirius, his Father, and their friends Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew during their time at Hogwarts, that revealed all the secret passages in and out of the school to the bearer, as well as pinpointing the location of any roving members of staff. Together they afforded Harry almost total freedom to range all over Hogwarts as and when he pleased. Harry had them both safely tucked away in his trunk, under his bed.  
  
As if sensing what he was thinking, Sirius added. "I think I'd better take the Map off you too, Harry."  
  
Harry looked up. Sirius' face was a mask of seriousness. Inwardly, he knew it would be absolutely no use protesting. He did anyway. "You're not being fair."  
  
"I'm being fairer than I should, Harry. If McGonagall had had her way, you'd be being guarded day and night," Sirius well remembered that particular staff meeting ... he had been surprised to discover that Harry had a very large file all to himself, which was kept in Dumbledore's office, and appeared to be stuffed full of what looked like fan mail. "I know you're a good and trustworthy boy ... but we just don't want to take any chances with you ... not after what happened last year."  
  
Harry scowled at him.  
  
"It's no use trying to throw the grumpy adolescent act on me," said Sirius. "Our minds are already made up. Please, Harry, do as I say ... don't make it harder on yourself," he checked his watch. "It's almost one thirty," he said. "You'd better get going if you want some lunch. Oh, and, Harry, one last thing."  
  
Harry, who had been in the process of climbing out of bed, stopped. "What is it now?" he asked.  
  
"I'm here incognito ... as far as you, Ron, Hermione, anybody else here is concerned, I'm Xavier Wilmot. Please don't go spreading the word about my true identity. If it was to get out that Dumbledore was employing an escaped murderer, Hogwarts would be finished."  
  
"I won't tell anyone," said Harry. "I promise."  
  
  
**************  
  
Draco slouched along the corridor towards the Great Hall. To the casual observer, the set of his shoulders, the pace of his walk and the fixed scowl on his face betrayed his mood instantly. He was completely dejected, a shadow of his former self. Two days of persistent persecution by his fellow Slytherins had left his self esteem lower than it had ever been before. They had been flicking food at him at mealtimes ... putting things in his bed, usually things that were either slimy and aggressive, or better still, both. That morning somebody had stolen his towel whilst he was in the shower, and he had been forced to steal his way back to the dormitory using a conveniently placed rubber duck. As if this wasn't bad enough, that very day he had received a letter reminding him of his duties...  
  
'66 Berkeley Place,' it read.  
  
'London  
SW5 6MA  
  
Sunday September 3rd 1995.  
  
Dear Mr Malfoy.  
  
I am writing to you on behalf of our mutual master, Artemis Chaldean, regarding the forward movement of the 'mission' you are currently engaged upon. I need hardly remind you that Mr Chaldean expects results quickly, as does your Father. It is now vital we obtain Harry Potter by means either fair or foul, within the next few weeks. To this end I enclose the final details of the potion you are to make.'  
  
Enclosed, Draco had found a small, crumpled piece of paper with the recipe written on it in blood red ink.  
  
'I need hardly remind you that failure in this task will result in Mr Chaldean's immense displeasure, not to mention dire circumstances for yourself. Do not fail us.  
  
Yours truly,  
  
Andrews, David.  
  
Secretary to Artemis Chaldean, BMA, BA.Pot. (Oxford).'  
  
Draco had read the letter through several times. It did not make pleasant reading. The words 'immense displeasure' and 'dire circumstances' stood out in particular. Draco wasn't exactly sure what Andrews meant by this, though it didn't take a great deal of intelligence to work out that a punishment would be in the offing. Draco considered himself to be somewhat of an expert on most conceivable forms of punishment, having undergone a great number of them during his lifetime ... he had a feeling Chaldean was capable of more than hitting him a few times. What were the names of those curses they had done last year?  
  
He looked up as the buzzing sound of happy conversation met his tired ears. His footsteps had lead him straight past the Great Hall, where the other students and faculty were at lunch. He peered around the door. He had been trying to avoid eating at the same time as the other Slytherins for fear of what they might try and do to him.  
  
What hurt the most, he thought, as he watched Crabbe and Goyle shovelling vast quantities of shepherd's pie into their already overstuffed bellies, was that there really was nobody he could go and talk to. He could hardly owl his Father ... most likely if he divulged what was on his mind, a severe rebuke, maybe even a howler, would come his way. His Father had always told him to stand up for himself, to maintain his honour and dignity at all costs. Draco, however, had never, ever had to stand up for himself before, and the realisation was dawning on him that he wasn't actually able to, and with that, the certain knowledge that he was as much of a coward as he thought he was. He could have spoken to Snape ... if he had been here, he was Snape's favourite, by a long way. Doctor Jones, on the other hand, was more or less completely unapproachable. He had only known her a few days, only had one lesson with her, but one thing was already clear in his mind; Doctor Jones hated him.  
  
He hung back near the door until Crabbe and Goyle had finished, and then slipped into the Hall. Most of the other students had gone now. Only Harry, Ron and Hermione were left at the Gryffindor table. Draco contemplated going over to sit with them, but he knew that he would receive no kindness there either. He sat down in his usual seat at the Slytherin table, from where he had a clear view of the back of Hermione's head, and helped himself to what remained of the shepherd's pie.  
  
"Didn't think you'd dare show your face around here again, Malfoy," someone said. Draco turned round. Pansy was standing behind him. "Thought you were hiding in shame!"  
  
Draco didn't reply. He took up his fork, and was about to start eating when his plate was dashed to the floor. It splintered into a thousand pieces, and the sloppy pie went all over Draco's beautifully polished shoes.  
  
"Answer me, Malfoy! What do you think gives you the right to sit at the Slytherin table?"  
  
Draco looked frantically around the hall for help, but none seemed to be forthcoming. The only two teachers who remained at the Top Table were, as bad luck would have it, Doctor Jones, and Professor McGonagall, both of whom seemed to be getting on like a house on fire, and neither of whom had noticed the loud crash as Draco's lunch met its doom.  
  
"I'm still a Slytherin ... like it or not," said Draco, quietly. He was still holding a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth.  
  
"Go and sit with those Mudblood Gryffindors," hissed Pansy. "That's all you're fit for. People like you are scum."  
  
"Sooner be a Mudblood than your friend," Draco found himself saying. "And call my family scum again and I'll hit you so hard you'll be able to see next Tuesday!"  
  
Pansy turned up her nose at him. "Scum. Filthy, cheating scum. How do you think you got all your money? Cheating, that's how! It's dirty money!" she said. "I don't know why I ever deluded myself that I fancied you, Draco Malfoy. Your so called mansion is a front. It's all over the Ministry. Money laundering, Swiss bank accounts, dirty dealings. Sooner or later your poxy family is going to get what's coming to it!"  
  
"And what might that be?" asked Draco, raising his voice in frustration ... he could feel cold, blind rage welling up inside his body.  
  
"A good kick up the rear end," said Pansy.  
  
"That's what somebody needs to give you!" hissed Draco. "You're a nasty little witch, and I can't believe I ever deluded myself than I fancied you."  
  
Pansy gasped. "How dare you!" she hissed. The next thing Draco knew, she had slapped him across the face. The few remaining diners turned to stare in their direction.  
  
"Get out of my sight!" she said. "I never want to see you, or hear you again!"  
  
She turned on her heels, and stormed out of the Hall. Draco looked down at the floor. His lunch was no more. He looked up again. Hermione was looking at him ... her face ... her expression looked like pity. She turned away hurriedly when she noticed Draco was staring at her, and pretended to be once more deep in conversation with Harry and Ron. Draco could tell she was only pretending. As he put his hand slowly to his cheek, which was still burning from Pansy's attack, he wondered what was on her mind ... what she was thinking. Above all he wondered what she thought about him.  
  
"I just want to be liked," he breathed to himself.  
  
**************  
  
As it happened, Draco got his chance to talk once again with Hermione later that very afternoon, when he came across her in the library, her nose buried deep inside a reference book. Draco was somewhat alarmed to note that it was the self same book he had stolen from his Father's study that hot, hot morning that now seemed so very far away in time ... the book in which he had first read about Dracaena Draco, the plant that was causing all the trouble in the first place. Summoning all the little strength he felt was left inside of him after the ordeals of the last few days, he went over, stood behind her, and coughed slightly, as he had been taught to do in etiquette classes.  
  
Hermione gave a little jump, startled by the sudden noise. She looked up. "Oh," she said, in a voice that could hardly be said to be bursting with enthusiasm. "What do you want?"  
  
"I was wondering, could I ... talk to you?" asked Draco.  
  
"If you'll excuse me, I'm trying to read," she replied haughtily.  
  
"What are you reading?" asked Draco, pretending he didn't already know, and peering over her shoulder to look at the text, a habit Hermione found deeply annoying at the best of times.  
  
"Will you quit looking over my shoulder?"  
  
Draco withdrew hurriedly. "Sorry," he said. "I meant no offence."  
  
Hermione gave him another one of her funny looks. "You don't give up easily do you, Malfoy? I'll say that in your favour."  
  
"I don't know what you mean."  
  
Hermione, truth to tell, was actually a bit worried about Draco. Not as worried as she would have been about Harry or Ron, but still slightly vexed. She knew he had been lying when he'd claimed that his black eye and bloody nose were 'nothing.' Hermione was by nature a generous soul, given to try and make peace with as many people as possible. At her Primary School, back home in Marlow, she'd always been the one who'd helped out, comforted the underdogs as they licked their wounds. Perhaps, she thought, this is the same instinct surfacing again. Perhaps ... she thought, a bit alarmed this time, I'm doomed to be a mother figure forever. Above all, her curiosity had always been insatiable. Maybe if that hadn't been so ... she would have told Draco to go away and leave her alone, and that would have been the end of that. However, Hermione, being Hermione, did not do this. Instead, she looked up at him, and said. "You still seem determined to be nice to me. You haven't called me a Mudblood once this term, which is saying something as far as you're concerned. So what's eating you?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Nothing much," he said. "You changed your tune quickly, didn't you?"  
  
"Someone makes the effort to be nice to me ... I ought at least to give them a chance. Don't you think so?" said Hermione. "That's what my Sunday School teacher always told me ... remember? Love your enemies ... stuff like that."  
  
"I never went to Sunday School," said Draco, shuffling his feet nervously, as though he felt this was something that he ought really to be ashamed of. "My parents aren't very religious."  
  
"You weren't missing anything," said Hermione, smiling. "But I guess sometimes stuff rubs off on you. Anyway ... you're not happy, I can tell. You need talking to, not putting down," she closed the book. "So what's new in the wacky world of Draco Malfoy?"  
  
Draco wrung his hands. "Nothing much," he said.  
  
"So nobody gave you that black eye, nobody bloodied your nose? That little fracas in the Hall at lunchtime ... that was a figment of my imagination was it?"  
  
Draco forced a smile. "You're being unexpectedly feisty," he said.  
  
"Feisty isn't the word I'd use," said Hermione, she was unconsciously fluttering her eyelashes at Draco, who hadn't noticed. "Take a seat."  
  
Draco perched on the edge of the table, as he did so, scanning the room for hostile elements. None seemed to be in the way of presenting themselves at that particular moment. Very few of the Slytherins really bothered to use the Library much. All the same, I'd better be on my guard, he thought. "What about Harry and Ron?" he asked.  
  
"Quidditch tryouts," said Hermione. "Harry's gone along to give Ron moral support. If you're worried about them bowling up out of the wide blue yonder and having a go at you, then don't be. I have them both wrapped around my little finger anyway," she favoured Draco with a wicked smile. Draco wondered what she meant by it.  
  
"Shouldn't you be doing the same?" he asked. "I mean, watching the Quidditch ... lending your support, for the greater glory of Gryffindor."  
  
"Draco, there's work to be done," said Hermione. "They have my spiritual support, which they may use as they see fit. Anyway, I don't find Quidditch that enthralling to watch."  
  
Draco gave her a look suggesting she'd just said something tantamount to sacrilege. However he didn't say anything. Instead he coughed, then spoke again. "I thought you and Harry were ... you know."  
  
"An item?" said Hermione. "Heaven forbid. Harry's lovely and all, don't get me wrong, but he's just not my type. I don't go for little guys in glasses."  
  
"And Ron?"  
  
"Too lanky," said Hermione. "Look here, fascinating though my twisted love life no doubt is to you, that's not what I thought you wanted to talk about. What is the matter with you?"  
  
"You'd never believe me if I told you," said Draco.  
  
"Try me," said Hermione. "You never know. Sometimes it helps to talk."  
  
"Well," said Draco. "I'm not really that popular at the moment."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"Just generally ... you know, with my House. Things being what they are ... I've made a bit of a pig's ear of things, and I don't even know if I want to put it right."  
  
"Why should that be?" asked Hermione, closing her book, and putting it to one side.  
  
"Mainly because I tried to talk to you," said Draco. "They think I'm trying to get in with the Gryffindors."  
  
"That's what it looks like from where I'm standing too," said Hermione. "Why are you trying to get in with us? Is it really worth getting beaten up for?"  
  
"I wasn't beaten up!" lied Draco with feeling.  
  
"Pull the other one, Draco," said Hermione. "Someone had a right go at you. Who was it? You should really go to a teacher."  
  
Draco looked up in astonishment. "Like that'll make any difference," he said. "Besides, they all hate me apart from Snape, and he isn't here."  
  
"Not everyone hates you," said Hermione, taking Draco's last remark as an admission that somebody had indeed been bullying him.  
  
"Yes they do," said Draco.  
  
"I don't."  
  
"That's very nice of you to say so," said Draco, unaware that he was blushing to the roots of his hair, which Hermione found faintly endearing, and thought made him look rather cute. However, she said nothing, and allowed Draco to carry on talking. "I had a lot of time to think things over during the summer," he said. "A lot of time. I suppose I should really have been doing my homework, but you know how it is."  
  
Hermione nodded. "What were you thinking about?" she asked.  
  
"About a week ago," said Draco. "My Father had a visitor, some bloke he used to work with. This guy told me some things that, kind of shook me up a bit."  
  
"A bit?"  
  
"A lot," said Draco. "He said quite a lot of things about what my Father used to do. Back, some time ago. I'd rather not go into what he said, but he gave me a lot of food for thought, and now I'm confused, I suppose."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"Life ... the universe, everything really," said Draco. "You know how it is when there's something you're itching to tell somebody, like making a declaration of love? That's kind of how I feel now."  
  
"There's something you want to tell me badly, isn't there?" said Hermione, who knew exactly what he meant. "Does it have something to do with that cutting I read you when we were in detention."  
  
"Indirectly, yes," said Draco. "But that isn't really very important right now. I guess there is something I want to tell somebody, but I'm not sure if that person is you. If you see what I mean?"  
  
"Would it do me any good at all to know what it is?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Yes, I suppose it would," said Draco.  
  
"You're not going to tell me though," said Hermione. "But that's what's bothering you? Right ... I guess we should backtrack a bit. Who knocked you around?"  
  
Draco glanced around the Library, and Hermione noticed for the first time that the look in his eyes seemed hunted. He seemed to be on the alert, as if anticipating attack from any quarter, at any second. Finally, he spoke. "It was Crabbe, and Goyle," he said.  
  
"What? I thought they were your friends."  
  
Draco shook his head, and hurriedly wiped the sleeve of his robes across his eyes, as if wiping away tears. "Hermione ... that's it ... I don't have any friends."  
  
"Crabbe and Goyle always used to hang around with you ... didn't they?" she asked. "I thought you guys were inseparable ... the gruesome threesome. Was it not like that?" she could anticipate the answer from the look on Draco's face.  
  
"No. Crabbe and Goyle just kind of drifted around me," said Draco. "My Father always chose my friends for me ... he vetoed any I brought home from Primary School. He's a good man ... really, he just, needs to be in control."  
  
"That isn't the mark of a good man," said Hermione. "But I'm not here to judge your Father. Actually, if you'd believe it, I came up here to try and get some research done and I end up playing Agony Aunt to beleaguered adolescent schoolboys."  
  
Draco grinned slightly at this, but it was a forced grin, and Hermione could tell it meant nothing. "I suppose Crabbe and Goyle were just the kind of friends he thought I needed. He could always tell you see. I can't fight for myself, I never could. I was a premature baby, I was always very weak. I suppose that's why he forced me to go to boxing classes. He thought it would put hair on my chest."  
  
"Did it?"  
  
"No, I was eight and a half," said Draco. "Anyway, he used to make Crabbe and Goyle's Fathers bring them round to play with me. Play being the operative word. I won't pretend I was spoiled rotten ... and being an only child ... well, you must know what only children are like ... selfish little sods, most of them."  
  
"Very insightful of you," said Hermione. "Carry on."  
  
"Yeah, so, they just kind of stuck to me," said Draco. "When we came to Hogwarts, I was actually very pleased we all ended up in Slytherin. It was where I wanted to be, of course, but Goyle was petrified he'd end up a Ravenclaw, or a Hufflepuff. They, well, I guess they had their uses as henchmen. The point was, I don't think either of them ever really liked me. I think they were just as pushed into being friends with me as I was with them. Saying your little boy is friends with the heir to the Malfoy fortune carries some weight, you see."  
  
"Don't get bigheaded," said Hermione.  
  
"I wasn't," said Draco. "That's the truth, honest to God."  
  
"You think they were in it for the money?"  
  
"For the toys, probably," said Draco. "I had rather a lot of them. The money, well, that's tied up in some sort of investment portfolio. I don't get to touch a Knut of it until I'm twenty five."  
  
"You're dabbling in the stock market are you?" asked Hermione.  
  
Draco made a face ... he, of course, didn't have the faintest idea what the stock market was. "Probably not," he said. "The money is in holdings in Eastern Europe and Asia ... we have property in the Caucasian Mountains ... Nagorno-Karabakh, Naxcivan and Chechnya, if I remember rightly. My Father has a ninety per cent share in the family business. Only nobody is quite sure what the family business does."  
  
"Nor are we here to discuss investment possibilities in Malfoy Incorporated and it's subsidiaries and shareholders," said Hermione. "You were telling me about Crabbe and Goyle."  
  
"I can't really think of much else to say about them," said Draco. "I'm sorry ... look, I've been bothering you ... you don't want to be seen talking to me. It won't do wonders for your street cred at this particular moment in time. But thanks for listening to me."  
  
"It's no problem," said Hermione. "Look ... I know it won't ... I mean, you probably don't really want to be seen around me at the minute. I imagine your street cred has touched rock bottom of late. But, if you need an ear, or a shoulder, then I am here, and I will listen to you. That's if you think you need it."  
  
Draco smiled ... the first genuine smile she could ever recall of him. For a moment, he looked so much more alive ... not like the normal Draco Malfoy, but a subdued version of the same. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate that. Um ... Hermione."  
  
"Fire away."  
  
"I'd, you know," he wrung his hands again. "Some of the things I've told you ... they're things I never told anybody else at all, before you. I'd appreciate it if..."  
  
"I won't tell a soul. You'd better go," said Hermione. "Harry just came in. I doubt he'd be particularly sympathetic."  
  
Draco slipped off the desk, and melted seamlessly into the shadowy realms of the tall bookcases. Harry approached the desk at which Hermione was sitting. He was still sporting the large piece of plaster on his forehead, partly obscuring his scar, though no less obvious in its way. Hermione was somewhat worried to note that there was now a very large, colourful bruise on his right cheek.  
  
"Who were you talking to?" asked Harry, taking off his glasses, and polishing them on his robes.  
  
"Justin Finch-Fletchley actually," lied Hermione, plucking the first name she could think of out of thin air. Harry seemed satisfied, and sat down on the desk, almost exactly where Draco had been. "He wanted help with his Transfiguration homework."  
  
"You mean you gave it to him? Oh well ... want to know how I got this?" he asked, gesturing to his face.  
  
"Roll up for the Hermione Granger counselling service," she muttered under her breath. "One night only, two Sickles a minute, call 0800-HERMI. Please ask permission before you dial."  
  
"Sorry?" said Harry, looking very perplexed indeed.  
  
"How did you get the bruise Harry?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Bludger," said Harry, proudly. "Didn't even see it coming. Damn near knocked me off my broom."  
  
"It looks nasty," said Hermione. "You really should go up to the Hospital Wing, put an ice pack on it."  
  
Harry shook his head. "At this point in time," he said. "I'd rather dance naked across hot coals than spend any more time with Madam Pomfrey breathing down my neck. Do you have any idea how much starch she puts in the pyjamas?"  
  
Hermione didn't.  
  
"It's like trying to sleep in a concrete overcoat," said Harry. "Anyway, it's stopped hurting now."  
  
"Fair enough," said Hermione. "Look, Harry, I don't mean to be mean or anything, but I'm rather busy at the minute. Was there something important you wanted to talk to me about?"  
  
"Well, actually," Harry began. "Yeah, but it's kind of private. I'd rather not talk in here."  
  
"There's nobody else here," said Hermione, scanning the library. "Nobody can hear."  
  
Harry swung his legs nervously ... he hadn't yet changed out of his Quidditch robes, and there was another livid yellow bruise on his shin. "It's nothing really. Actually, you'll probably think it's silly."  
  
"Very few things you have ever said to me have turned out to be silly," said Hermione. "I can think of one or two, but they're the exceptions that prove the rule ... in this case anyway."  
  
"But this is rather silly," said Harry. "Hermione, what do you think of me?"  
  
Hermione was somewhat taken aback by what appeared to her to be a very direct approach, and one she had never known Harry to take before ... he tended to be a bit dithery when it came to explaining himself.  
  
"You think I'm being daft, don't you?" said Harry, noting the astonished look on Hermione's face.  
  
"Not at all," said Hermione, quickly. "I ... I'm just a little bit surprised. I don't know if I can answer that question."  
  
"Have a go," said Harry. "You see, I've been doing a lot of thinking over the last week ... and now that Cho has gone back to Hong Kong," he paused. "Not that I mean to say for one second that I'm only telling you this because she isn't ... you know, available..."  
  
"I understand," said Hermione, who didn't ... at all. "Carry on."  
  
"Yeah, anyway ... like I said, I was thinking a lot, and I think there's more between us than just being friends. If you see what I mean ... I was wondering, if ... you know, felt the same way about me? It's just ... I think we could be good together, as long as Ron didn't get in the way or anything."  
  
Hermione pondered the question for a moment. She was dimly aware of some unidentifiable person looking at books in the next aisle. She lowered her voice and spoke in a whisper. "Harry, I think you're really nice," she said.  
  
Harry looked relieved.  
  
Hermione went on. "I really like you, and I really value you as a friend and an ally," she caught the look on Harry's face. "I'm not answering your question am I?"  
  
"Do I look okay?" asked Harry.  
  
"Superficially, no," said Hermione. "You're covered in bruises. I guess ... I know what you're getting at. Harry, I want you to listen to me," she considered how best to put this to him without deflating him too severely. "You are very good looking, and believe me, when the time comes, you'll have no trouble getting a girlfriend. The thing is ... I don't think I'm the right person for you. Is that what you were thinking?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"I think you know that as well. I think you know what you want ... I just don't think either of us are ready for that yet ... and even if we were, I don't believe it would be right."  
  
Harry's face was half hidden in the flickering shadows, but it looked very much as though he was biting his lip. "I see," he said.  
  
"Don't be disheartened Harry," said Hermione. "I want you as a friend, platonic, you understand? I think you want the same."  
  
"I made a complete arse of myself, didn't I?" said Harry. "I'm really sorry. I ought to go."  
  
"Stay if you want," said Hermione.  
  
"No, really, I need to get changed, have a shower and stuff. Look, I'll see you later. I'll be with Ron in the Common Room. Okay?" he slipped off the desk, and was gone, leaving Hermione sitting at her desk, looking slightly stunned. She was sure she'd done the right thing, however. She already knew that she didn't have any romantic feelings towards Harry ... but now, knowing that he did made her feel distinctly unsettled. Was he for real? What he had said seemed honest enough, and of course, Harry, not having had the benefit of parents, or even a halfway normal childhood, would naturally find speaking his mind and his heart harder than a normal person. Sometimes, she quite forgot that Harry was not normal, even for a wizard. What he had just done must have required an enormous amount of courage. She knew she had done the right thing by letting him down, but had she done it in the right way? Hermione wasn't at all sure she had. She had never seen Harry truly upset by anything ... save for that one time in the Hospital Wing. She wasn't even sure if he knew how to express himself like that. She would hate to think she had upset him. For a moment she considered going after him ... but decided against it. What Harry needed was time alone. Sighing, she picked up her book again.  
  
From his vantage point a few feet away, Draco stared at her, open mouthed.  
  
**************  
  
Draco was surprised to see that the next morning, Harry and Hermione appeared to be chatting away as though nothing had happened between them. Evidently Harry was made of sterner stuff than Draco had previously assumed. Again, he waited until most of the rest of the students had finished their breakfast and gone off to organise their books and bags for the day before he sat down to eat. As a consequence of this, there was just one other Slytherin at the table, Johannes Ericssen, who was slyly looking at Draco over his bowl of lumpy porridge.  
  
"Are you okay?" he asked. Draco looked up. In many ways, Johannes reminded him of himself at the age of eleven. Timid and insecure, apparently friendless, yet hiding that behind an outward show of cheek, that if the rumour mill was to be believed, had already resulted in two detentions and twenty points lost for Slytherin.  
  
"Not really," said Draco. "Forget it, it's nothing for you to be worried about."  
  
"I saw what happened to you," said Johannes. He had a strong South African accent. "Why did they attack you?"  
  
"Because of something I said," said Draco, the tone of his voice making it clear he wanted to be disturbed from his repast no further. Johannes didn't take the hint.  
  
"Is it because you don't want to be in Slytherin?" asked Johannes.  
  
"Of course I want to be in Slytherin," said Draco. "Eat up and leave me alone, kid."  
  
"I didn't want to be in Slytherin," said Johannes. "My parents were both in Gryffindor, a long time ago," he added, as though this wasn't immediately obvious.  
  
"That's nice," said Draco. "Aren't you in a hurry?"  
  
Johannes shook his head. "I've got Potions first with Doctor Jones. She's really horrible to us."  
  
Draco smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "Really horrible," he took up his knife and fork, and began to eat his bacon.  
  
"Do you know Harry Potter then?" asked Johannes.  
  
Draco looked up from his breakfast. "Kind of," he said. "We don't get on very well."  
  
"He seems really nice," said Johannes. "He helped me out when I got lost the other day."  
  
"You shouldn't really have done that," said Draco, sipping his tea. "We ... that is to say, Slytherins and Gryffindors, we have a kind of a feud going on ... it's been going on practically since Hogwarts started, and so we don't usually talk to each other. I'd look out Johannes ... if any of the others see you talking to him or his friends, they might turn nasty."  
  
"*You* were talking to him," said Johannes. "And Hermione Granger. I saw you!"  
  
"That was different," said Draco. "I had a very good reason for that."  
  
"Is that why the others tried to beat you up?" asked Johannes.  
  
Draco scowled at the other boy, and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Yes!" he hissed. "But don't go blabbing about that to anybody, understand. I'll make it worse for you if you do. Got that?"  
  
Johannes blushed bright red. "Okay," he said. He returned to his breakfast, and not another word passed between either of them.  
  
**************  
  
"As you no doubt remember," Doctor Jones went on. "The homework I set you during our last lesson was to read Chapters One through Fifteen of 'The Relevance of Potions in a Modern Magical Society' and make notes on what you learned. Please take out your notes and place them on your desks in front of you."  
  
There was a flurry of activity as the class delved into their bags for their assignments. Draco, this time, had done his. Doctor Jones was almost immediately at his side.  
  
"I see we have decided to pull our socks up, Malfoy," she said, picking up the notes, and rifling through them. Draco had actually been forced to do them twice, as Crabbe had ripped up the first set. "They're a bit messy," she said. "But they'll do."  
  
Hermione gave Draco a supportive smile ... thankfully nobody except Draco noticed it.  
  
Jones walked across the classroom to where Crabbe and Goyle were sitting. Much to Draco's annoyance, both of them had completed the set work as well.  
  
"This is an improvement, Goyle," she said. "See what we can achieve when we don't eat as we work? Now, let's see how the troublemakers did."  
  
Draco, and most of the rest of the class turned to look. Harry, Ron and Hermione all had their work out in front of them. The sense of disappointment radiating from Doctor Jones was evident even on the other side of the room, where Draco was sitting, all alone at the front desk. None of the Slytherins were talking to him now.  
  
"Today," said Jones. "We will be attempting to brew the Ancestral Potion. Can anybody apart from Granger tell me exactly what this is?"  
  
Draco thought he remembered, and tentatively raised his hand.  
  
"Go on, Malfoy," said Jones. "Do tell us," a paper dart hit Draco on the back of the head, but Jones didn't notice it, or that it had been thrown by Millicent Bulstrode.  
  
"It recalls the spirits of your ancestors," said Draco, who wasn't sure he wanted to meet the Malfoys. "We won't actually be drinking it, will we?"  
  
"No," said Jones. "It can be very dangerous if used unwisely. If everybody took it, the dungeon would be overflowing with ghosts, besides the fact that it needs to be performed in tandem with a very complex rite that I would not advise anybody here to try. Actually, I don't know why it's on the syllabus ... it is completely pointless and very rarely used nowadays. I believe the last occasion occurred sometime in the 1980's, about twelve years ago. Now, can anybody tell me what this potion is useful for?"  
  
"The spirits can transfer their residual strength into their descendant," said Draco. "It makes them stronger in battle, or in duels."  
  
"We are being very sharp today, Malfoy," said Jones. "A point to Slytherin. Let's see if Granger can tell us more. What is the principal ingredient?"  
  
"Tricorn horn," said Hermione.  
  
"Correct. However, we can no longer use this, on account of the tricorn being a very rare and protected species. I gather Xavier Wilmot is teaching you about them?"  
  
The class nodded. "Heed his words ... he is a very wise man. I used to work with him ... I *used* to know him very well. Now, in the absence of tricorns, a substitute can be used which is almost as effective. This ingredient is nothing more than common or garden sheep's liver. This is what we will be using today. Please pair off."  
  
The class split into pairs. Draco's eyes roved frantically over the classroom, trying to find somebody who was prepared to work with him. However, all the Slytherins had already chosen their partners. Pansy was grinning malevolently at him.  
  
"Malfoy, come here," said Jones. "Granger doesn't have a partner either. Work with her."  
  
To jeers and catcalls from the Slytherins, Draco slouched over to Hermione's workbench. Harry and Ron were already setting up their equipment, and both of them shot Draco glares filled with pure hatred.  
  
"Hello," said Hermione, brightly. "Are you feeling better today?"  
  
"Not much," said Draco, who felt like he was about to wither under the stares of Harry and Ron. "Come on, we'd better get started."  
  
"Before we start," said Doctor Jones. "I was somewhat alarmed to discover that somebody had broken into the restricted store cupboard in my office last night. If it was any of you, I warn you now that any further night time excursions will result in severe sanctions. I also add that it any of you know who the culprit is, please tell me."  
  
Draco swallowed, and tried not to look in her direction. He had been following Chaldean's instructions for the mixture of the Dragon's Blood potion ... the powdered Dracaena Draco leaves needed several hours of patient distillation before they were usable, and some of the ingredients were very hard to come by, hence Draco's midnight raiding visits to the dungeons.  
  
"I want you to bring a quart of water to the boil," said Jones, who had once again taken to stalking the aisles between the workbenches, looking for trouble, and when she couldn't find any, creating it herself.  
  
Hermione said nothing to Draco as she filled up her old pewter cauldron with water, and muttering a few choice words, conjured up a small blue fire to heat it up with. Draco was just beginning to think that their heart to heart had meant nothing, when to his surprise, she slipped a little note into his pocket, and tipped him a wink.  
  
"Don't say anything," she whispered. "Remember, Draco ... I hate you."  
  
"Understood," said Draco.  
  
Harry and Ron didn't appear to want to talk to either of them ... something for which Draco was, in truth, profoundly thankful, as he didn't much feel like talking to them either. Indeed, the only person he really wanted to talk to at this point was Hermione. She was actually the only person he felt he could talk to. None of the Slytherins were taking any notice of him. As they waited for the water to boil ... which took a good five minutes, he glanced quickly across the dungeon to where his erstwhile friends seemed to be sharing a very funny joke. Occasionally one of them would look at Draco, and then they would dissolve into fresh fits of laughter. Draco felt slightly sick, and quickly looked away again.  
  
"I really need to talk to you," he said to Hermione, who was watching the water, which was beginning to bubble violently.  
  
"Not here ... not now," said Hermione. "Come and talk to me later."  
  
"When later?" asked Draco, raising his voice slightly.  
  
"I don't know," said Hermione. "Look ... meet me in the Library, seven o'clock, after dinner. Nobody ever goes to the Library. Have you quartered those gall bladders yet?"  
  
"I'm right onto it," said Draco, seizing scalpel and wooden chopping board. "Do you want the shredded mandrake leaves yet?"  
  
"They go in last, Draco."  
  
"Yeah ... sorry. I knew that."  
  
On the other end of the workbench, Harry was watching the proceedings with a certain degree of interest, whilst Ron watched the boiling potion, which was emitting brief puffs of foul smelling purple smoke. It was not meant to be doing this.  
  
"Harry," Ron said. "Should we have added the gall bladders first?"  
  
"Don't think so," said Harry, tearing his attention away from Hermione and Draco for one second. "I don't think Hermione has."  
  
The cauldron was starting to vibrate alarmingly. "Perhaps we should try doing something, Harry," said Ron, indicating the potential for disaster by waving his hands around.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm onto it," said Harry in a very half-hearted manner.  
  
"Harry! Stop ogling Hermione for one minute and give me a hand!"  
  
"Okay!" shouted Harry, whirling round, catching his sleeve on the jar containing their stewed sheep's liver, and knocking it over. "Quit bugging me! Take it off the boil or something."  
  
Ron tried to pick up the cauldron by its handles, and jumped back as it burned his hands. He yelled in pain. From her vantage point at the teacher's desk in front of the class, Doctor Jones looked up.  
  
"Are we completely incapable of carrying out simple instructions without killing ourselves?" she asked, storming over and waving her arms in the air to dissipate the thick, choking smog that now hung over the remains of Harry and Ron's potion.  
  
"I think we may have put the ingredients in in the wrong order," said Ron. Jones had pulled on a very large, very thick oven glove with a picture of a cat sewn into it, and removed the cauldron from the fire. She coughed loudly.  
  
"I assume you thought it would be amusing to mess around during my lessons, did we not, boys?" asked Jones, surveying both them and the smouldering potion. "I can see no other reason for such a superb display of supreme incompetence. You aren't retarded by any chance?"  
  
Harry scowled at her. "It was an accident," he said. "We messed up the ingredients!"  
  
Jones shot him a death ray glance which silenced him. "How dare you raise your voice to me, Potter!" she hissed.  
  
"I wasn't," protested Harry. "All I was saying."  
  
"Silence," Doctor Jones said. "I see you have evidently not even been schooled in the basic mannerisms and conventions of polite society, Potter. Do we by any chance reside in a dustbin?"  
  
Harry remained silent.  
  
Doctor Jones carried on speaking. The Slytherins were looking on with looks of intense glee on every one of their faces. "Since we are unaware of basic courtesy, Potter, I feel it must be my unfortunate duty to instruct you on your sub-standard behaviour. You never, ever, talk back to a teacher ... and if you talk back to me ... well, you had better be very brave, or have some sort of death wish."  
  
Somebody, it sounded like Pansy Parkinson snickered loudly. Doctor Jones ignored her.  
  
"You and Weasley are banned from practical work in these lessons until such time as I am duly convinced that Potter here has mastered the tricky problem of respect for one's superiors. Clean this mess up, and see me after the lesson," she stalked off. There was a brief moment of silence before the usual buzz of casual conversation resumed.  
  
Harry turned to Ron. "Sorry," he said.  
  
"That was unfair," said Ron, reaching for the paper towels to start mopping up the mess. "Here," he leant closer. "What's happening between Hermione and Draco?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "They seem to be working together ... and not actually killing each other."  
  
Ron shook his head. "Weird," he said. "You don't think she was serious ... you know, what she was saying on Saturday."  
  
"That she thought he was cute," said Harry. "Nah ... Draco isn't her type. I'm sure of it."  
  
"How would you be so sure?" asked Ron. "Unless she's seeing you. Hey ... perhaps Draco is her bit on the side. You've got competition, Harry!"  
  
"Hermione is *not* seeing me," said Harry, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice as he thought how much he wished she was. "Whatever makes you think she and I have a thing going?"  
  
"Because you talk in your sleep, Harry," said Ron.  
  
Harry blushed. "What ... since when? Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"I thought, some day the moment will come," said Ron, "when it will be right for me to tell Harry about his nocturnal vocalisations. Now is as good a time as any."  
  
"I don't keep you awake ... do I?" asked Harry, not daring to look Ron in the eye.  
  
"Between you and Neville ... yes, you do," said Ron. "Sounds like you have some pretty fruity dreams every so often!"  
  
"I don't want to know," said Harry. "Shut up already and get cleaning."  
  
"You asked," shrugged Ron, affecting an air of being offended, though making it obvious that he wasn't.  
  
"What sort of things do I say?" asked Harry, after a minute's awkward silence, during which both boys engaged themselves in moving the spilled potion ingredients around the desk a bit, without actually managing to make it cleaner.  
  
"Sometimes you don't make a whole lot of sense," said Ron, grinning slightly. "Mostly, you just sort of grunt incoherently. Once you told Snape to eff off."  
  
Harry smiled. "Well, that's something I suppose."  
  
"And the other night," Ron went on. "You kept telling Hermione not to go away. You were having some sort of argument about Quidditch."  
  
Harry glanced quickly over to Hermione, who was chopping up her sheep's liver, ready to add it to the bubbling potion. She didn't seem to have noticed, or heard, what they were talking about.  
  
"Not so loud," hissed Harry. "Be that as it may ... I am not in love with Hermione ... period. She is not my girlfriend." Harry couldn't remember a lie having ever been so difficult to tell before. True, they were not officially an item ... Hermione had done more than confirm that when they had spoken in the Library the previous evening. However, it was true that he fancied her. Ever since she had fixed her teeth by magic, finally discarding her braces for good, he had started to notice her more. At the time, he had been infatuated with the unobtainable Cho Chang, who was not only in the year above him, but was already going out with someone else. However, Cho's Father had been recalled to Hong Kong over the summer ... at least, that was what the rumour flying round the school said, though some Slytherins had made up one about her being dead. Either way, Cho had not come back to Hogwarts that term, and so Harry had finally had time to think about other things ... that is to say, Hermione.  
  
"Whatever," said Ron, who obviously didn't believe him.  
  
"What would you do?" asked Harry, watching Hermione and Draco whilst continuing to wipe the workbench with the single damp dishcloth that Doctor Jones had begrudged him. "What would you do, if Hermione and Draco were going out together?"  
  
"I don't know," said Ron, pondering Harry's question with an expression of deep thought creasing his freckled brow. "Probably ... hell. I don't know. Why such awkward questions today, Harry?"  
  
"No reason," said Harry. "I was just thinking ... you know. What would happen if they were an item?"  
  
"The Slytherins would turn on him," said Ron. "He wouldn't get a moment's peace. The risk is too high ... he'd never try anything."  
  
"Haven't you noticed that the Slytherins have already ostracised Draco?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron looked up suddenly. "You don't think?"  
  
"Nah," said Harry. "Hermione has better taste than the world renowned poseur Draco Malfoy. He of the gelled back hair and the snazzy designer robes."  
  
Ron snickered. "I think you're right," he said. "We're just talking crap. It would never happen ... and we know it!"  
  
Harry, however, wasn't so sure. Could Ron honestly not see it? He thought it was obvious. Harry didn't consider himself an expert on other people's body language ... but all the same, he definitely thought there were some signals being given out from both of them. Draco seemed to be being polite ... or at least, he wasn't actually at Hermione's throat. He also seemed to be more subdued. He was deferring to Hermione, letting her do the work. Though maybe that was just because Draco wasn't actually very bright. Then there was Hermione ... she seemed to be flashing her eyelids at him ... occasionally actually touching him on the shoulder. It couldn't really have been any more blatant.  
  
"But what if it did?" said Harry, not taking his eyes off Hermione for a second. "What if they really did declare their undying passion to an unsuspecting world?"  
  
"What now?"  
  
"How would you feel about Hermione then? Forget Draco for a minute," said Harry.  
  
"I don't know," said Ron. "I honestly have never given it a second thought."  
  
"Would you still talk to her?" asked Harry. "Would you want anything to do with her?"  
  
"I don't know," repeated Ron, sounding more than a little irritated. "Look ... can we just drop the whole love thing? I think it's making me nauseous."  
  
**************  
  
"I bet you enjoyed that, didn't you, Malfoy," Crabbe said. "In cahoots with that Mudblood Granger now are we? Thought you had better taste."  
  
"Bugger off," said Draco, looking the other way. It was just past dinner time, and Draco was heading off to the Library for his planned rendezvous with Hermione. It was just his luck, thought Draco, that Crabbe happened to be going the same way, laden with overdue books.  
  
"But I don't feel like doing that," said Crabbe, putting his arm around Draco in what any passing person would have interpreted as a mere friendly gesture. Draco however, sensed ulterior motives.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked, trying to wrestle free of Crabbe's grip, which proved impossible.  
  
"I want a friendly chat," said Crabbe. "You know, like the kind we used to have."  
  
"What about?" asked Draco, feigning not being bothered.  
  
"I didn't like doing what we did on Saturday," said Crabbe. "I didn't enjoy it at all. It was Goyle's idea."  
  
"Really. Couldn't help noticing that you weren't objecting at the time," said Draco. "I was the one who ended up with a black eye and got punched so hard in the stomach I spent most of the afternoon in the toilets throwing up."  
  
This information didn't appear to bother Crabbe in the slightest. "I'm giving you a friendly warning, Draco ... a friendly warning because I don't think you know what you're doing ... I don't think you've realised that you're throwing away everything ... our friendship. Everything, just because you can't stop gawking at Hermione Granger. Frankly, Draco, it's painful to watch."  
  
"I do not have a thing for Hermione Granger!" said Draco, finally wriggling free of Crabbe. "Why does everybody think I do? All I did wrong was talk to her a couple of times."  
  
"That isn't exactly how it looks from my point of view," said Crabbe. "Come on, Draco ... admit you admire her ... admit you fancy her if you must. You aren't exactly hiding it ... you might as well start wearing a sandwich board, or have a major leaflet campaign."  
  
"I'm not admitting to anything," whined Draco. "I've done nothing wrong."  
  
"Draco. This is a friendly warning," said Crabbe. "They don't want me to tell you this ... I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. If Millicent, or Pansy catches me, they'll do exactly to me as they did to you. However, I'm prepared to risk getting my lights punched out because I still value your friendship."  
  
"That's nice to know," said Draco. "Believe me ... you're preaching to the converted. Now, if you'd just let me go on my way ... I have a lot of studying to get on with."  
  
"You aren't carrying any books," said Crabbe. "You haven't even got your rucksack on!"  
  
"I'm doing research," said Draco in an annoyed tone of voice. "Will you let me go now?"  
  
"Draco," said Crabbe. "I know you're lying to me ... but I'll let that go see? On account of me being an all round bloody nice bloke. But let me warn you, Draco. I can take so much and then no more. If you don't ditch this Hermione thing at the hurry up, I swear somebody is going to punch you so hard you'll be puking your guts out for a week. Is that understood?"  
  
Draco could do nothing but nod sheepishly. He stared down at his shoes, willing Crabbe to go away.  
  
"It's such a lovely evening," said Crabbe, looking around himself. "Perhaps I'll come with you to the Library. I was taking some books back anyway, and maybe I can help you with your research."  
  
"That won't be necessary," said Draco.  
  
"Oh no, but I want to," said Crabbe.  
  
The Library was not full. There were about five other students sitting at desks, poring over the massive leather bound volumes of magical lore in which the Hogwarts Library seemed to abound. Draco looked around desperately, but in the half light could not tell if any of them was Hermione.  
  
"Wait for me here," said Crabbe, striding over to Madam Pince's desk. "I can help you look for the books you need."  
  
Draco could do nothing but lean casually against one of the bookcases and wait as Crabbe got his books stamped and paid his overdue fines. He kept turning round, evidently to check on Draco.  
  
"Pssst!" someone hissed. Draco spun round, hoping it was Hermione. Indeed it was ... she was peering him through a gap in the shelves.  
  
"I thought you weren't going to show up," said Draco joyfully, momentarily forgetting about Crabbe. "Look, someone else decided to come with me. It isn't worth you risking your neck by trying to talk to me here. I'll try and slip away from him. Meet me out by the Greenhouses. Fifteen minutes?"  
  
Hermione nodded, and disappeared from view.  
  
"Draco ... who were you talking to?" Crabbe's voice.  
  
Draco spun round to face Crabbe, who was standing just behind him. Hoping to goodness that he hadn't seen exactly who he was talking to, he said. "Nobody."  
  
"I can tell when you're lying," said Crabbe. "Your earlobes go all red."  
  
Draco put his hands to his ears self consciously. "I was looking at an interesting book," he said. He could feel an itching, tickling sensation running down his spine. It felt as though somebody was using him as an electricity conduit.  
  
"You were talking to somebody," said Crabbe. "You were whispering. If you're going to try tricking me, Draco, at least try not to make it quite so blatantly obvious that that's what you're doing."  
  
"Who said anything about tricking you, Vincent?" said Draco, playing his 'innocence' card. His Mother, when she was actually in a parenting mood, and passing a rare moment by not sitting at her dressing table, trying different types of lipstick, was often wont to tell Draco in a patronising voice how 'perfectly sweet' he had been as a little boy, and that he was still her 'little baby really.' Draco hoped she was right, and not just being indulgent. From the expression on Crabbe's face, she was being indulgent.  
  
"Just watch it, Draco," said Crabbe, putting his face close up to Draco's. "Your folks might fall for the cute act, but not me. I'm not as stupid as you think I am," he spat the last words with such ferocity that he sprayed Draco in the face with spittle. Draco wiped it off on the sleeve of his robes.  
  
"Just piss off and leave me alone," said Draco, scowling at Crabbe. "I didn't ask for this to happen to me..."  
  
"But you see, Draco, you did," said Crabbe, scowling back with equal venom. "I'm starting to get annoyed with you Draco. Believe me, I don't like you so much that I'd be prepared to let you get away with insulting me and walking off unscathed."  
  
"Just let me go!" said Draco, raising his voice. The other students reading turned to stare at the disturbance, and Madam Pince hissed for quiet.  
  
"If you boys can't keep it down over there, I will be forced to ban you."  
  
Crabbe seized Draco by the left forearm. "Come on, Draco. Let's finish this somewhere else," so saying, he led him out of the Library at the double.  



	5. The Visitors

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
Most of the recognisable characters, concepts and locations referenced in this story belong in their entirety to J.K. Rowling and other production companies ... not me. Nor am I affiliated with any of the official stuff. This is just a bit of fun!  
  
THE STORY SO FAR.  
  
Draco Malfoy's world has been turned upside down after his recruitment by a faction of Dark Wizards working against Voldemort, headed by the mysterious Artemis Chaldean and Lucius Malfoy himself. Supplied with mind control drugs distilled from the sap of the dragon tree, Dracaena Draco, he must worm his way into Harry Potter's circle of friends. However, something has gone wrong, and the Slytherins have turned against him. Hermione seems to be the only one who can offer him solace ...  
  
Now ... read on.  
  
PART FIVE. THE VISITORS.  
  
Hermione stood outside Greenhouse Four, casting her eyes around for any sign of Draco. The light was fading fast, and with the gathering darkness came the wind, whistling over the mountaintops, chilling her to the very bone. She hugged herself tightly, and stomped her feet to keep warm. It may only still have been early September, but this far north, winter was already on the way.  
  
She checked her watch. She had definitely been here longer than fifteen minutes now. Still, Draco seemed to be resolutely not putting in any kind of appearance whatsoever ... she was beginning to worry about him. She already knew the Slytherins had been using him as a human punch bag. What if they had gone too far?  
  
She reflected as she leant against the door of the greenhouse on the unusual circumstances that had so far lead to her becoming, in the space of a few short days, Draco Malfoy's friend and confidante. If you had gone up to her on the Hogwarts Express the previous Friday, and told her that this would be how her term panned out, she probably would have smiled, or laughed it off, or maybe even have become angry. Up until now, she had hated Draco Malfoy with every fibre of her existence. He had done his utmost, over the last four years, to get her, Harry and Ron in deep trouble at every opportunity. She could still remember that time in the First Year, when he had tricked Harry and Ron into meeting him for a duel in the Trophy Room. He had tipped off Filch, and the three of them had very nearly been caught by him. Then there was that glorious day ... night rather, when Draco himself had been caught wandering around out of bed at night, intent on catching Harry and herself, who were aiding and abetting the smuggling of a baby Norwegian Ridgeback out of the country. He had got a detention for his pains. Their jubilation had been swiftly followed by their downfall, and the subsequent loss of no less than a hundred and fifty points from Gryffindor still stuck in her memory. She smiled at the recollection. Harry had literally been shaking in his slippers.  
  
Somewhere in the twilit sky, an owl hooted, and something flew across the rising moon, silhouetted against the brilliant white light it cast over the grounds. It could have been someone on a broomstick. It could have been a bat. Hell, around Hogwarts, it could have been anything. Nothing ever happens here that could be termed as mundane, thought Hermione. She could hear footsteps crunching along the gravel path ... but the footfall was too heavy for it to be Draco. Sure enough, Professor Sprout walked past, evidently buried deep in thought, and didn't pay Hermione a second glance before heading off in the direction of the rose garden.  
  
Hermione took another glance at the luminous dial of her wristwatch. She had been waiting out in the cold and the dark for nearly twenty five minutes. She was just about to give up, assume Draco had got lost, or attacked or something, and go inside, when she heard him approaching. At first by the sounds of his running footfall, and then by the sounds of his frantic coughing.  
  
She stepped out into the path. Draco, who was wrapped tightly in his Winter cloak, fastened across the chest with a silver buckle in the shape of a tiny sword, nearly ran straight into her. He looked up ... Hermione could see tears were trickling down his face.  
  
"What happened?" she gasped in genuine concern.  
  
Draco blushed, even through his tears, and tried in vain to wipe himself dry. He ran his sleeve across his nose, and sniffed loudly. Now Hermione could see a new bruise on his chin, and blood trickling once more from his aquiline nose.  
  
"He tricked me," sniffed Draco. "He tricked me ... he must have known you were going to be there. That must have been why he followed me."  
  
"Steady, steady," said Hermione ... uncertain of what to do, she put her arm around Draco's shoulders. "Go back from there, Draco. Who knew I was going to be where?"  
  
"Crabbe," gasped Draco. "Must have heard us talking during Potions. He must have known."  
  
"Was that who was with you in the Library?" asked Hermione. "I didn't get a good look."  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
Hermione guided him over to the steps up into the greenhouse, and helped him to sit down. She crouched down next to his miserable form. "So what did he do?" she asked.  
  
Draco was shaking his head. "You'll just laugh," he sobbed. Hermione handed him a tissue.  
  
"I promise on Harry's life I will not laugh at you," said Hermione, her voice forceful and resolute.  
  
"He dragged me out of the Library ... he was always a lot stronger than me ... an' ... and Pansy and Goyle an' some fourth year kid I don't know were waiting round the corner," he choked again, blinking back tears. Hermione felt inside all her many pockets, but couldn't seem to find any more tissues anywhere. "I don't want to tell," Draco was saying.  
  
"You must."  
  
"My Father ... always told me to ... fight my own battles," sniffed Draco, looking into Hermione's eyes with a look of such pain, anger and fear on his face as Hermione didn't believe she had ever seen before. "He never wanted anybody to see me like this."  
  
"Your Father seems to be stuck in the Nineteenth Century," said Hermione. "There's nothing wrong with anything you've done ... anything at all."  
  
"Nothing?"  
  
"No," said Hermione. "You aren't at fault here."  
  
"That's not it," sniffed Draco, waving his hands in despair. "He always told me I shouldn't show them I was hurt. But I can't do that. I never got bullied before ... I don't know how the hell I avoided it. Being in with Crabbe and Goyle must have had something to do with that ... I just, nobody ever hit me or anything, and my Father thought that meant I was being the strong one," he stopped, gulped and continued talking. "He never wanted me to show them anything. I'm not allowed to cry at home."  
  
"Don't be silly," said Hermione. "You must do ... sometimes."  
  
"I haven't cried in front of my Parents since I was six," said Draco.  
  
"What happened when you were six?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I had an ice cream," said Draco. "A really big one too. My Father had some business associate round, and we were in the garden ... an' ... and Mother went for ice cream ... we had some in the house. Anyway, she comes out with ice cream in little bowls for them, and a cone for me. Right? I'm sitting on the grass, and she gives me mine, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," said Hermione. "Carry on."  
  
Draco shook his head. "I don't ... anyway, I think ... he was, this guy, he was an American ... and he said something like, 'Why we have ice creams ten times the size of that one in the States, give the kid another scoop.' So Mother looked at Father, and he nodded ... I suppose they had to flatter this guy, some sort of deal. And she gave me another scoop of ice cream. So I was sitting there with my ice cream and my toy broomsticks, and this bloody great cone melts," he appeared to be smiling through his tears. "It's a silly thing really, but it was melting. Then the extra scoop fell off."  
  
"You started crying, right?" asked Hermione. Draco nodded, but he nodded sheepishly, as though he was ashamed, as though he didn't think he should be telling her what he was telling her. Hermione could do little else but prompt him to tell her more.  
  
"I started crying, got it in one. But my Father's giving me this look, this disgusted look, and I'm thinking, uh-oh, I know what's coming next. And he excuses himself to this Yank, and takes me indoors to his study, he's hauling me along by my arm, and I'm wailing harder than ever. And he sits me down in his swivel chair ... and then he starts yelling at me."  
  
"What was he yelling?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Hard to remember," he snivelled. "It was something like, you arrogant, spiteful little toad! He told me I was letting the side down ... he's into Quidditch analogies is my Father. He told me we don't cry."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Me, him, people in general. You're British Draco ... he said, and you must always remember that your people built an Empire ... and they didn't cry because their ice cream melted. And I didn't understand him, so I carried on. I was only six, I didn't have a clue what he was on about. And he said he was going to teach me a lesson ... that he'd make sure I learned not to cry ever again."  
  
"What did he do?"  
  
She didn't hear Draco's reply, but it sounded like. "He started beating me." Tears were once more trickling down his face. Hermione felt goose pimples rising on her arms. Draco's story had affected her gravely ... so much so that she actually felt slightly sick inside. She knew now why he had always acted the way he did. She also knew that to have a Father like that, and to let him affect you like that, and then to cry the way he was because his friends had turned on him must require a titanic effort. Whatever Draco was going through now must be really bad. Thoughts of what she would like to do to Lucius Malfoy for abusing his own son were whirling through her head ... to be replaced with thoughts of Draco, whose shoulders were heaving. He was breathing quickly, in short, ragged gasps, and moaning tragically. Right now, what he needed were people around him who cared for him ... who could hug him, and whisper to him, and tell him it was all okay. There was nobody around to do that. The onus was on her.  
  
"He was hitting me," Draco whispered in between his sobs, in a voice so faint Hermione could barely hear it.  
  
"Did this happen often?" asked Hermione, holding Draco tightly.  
  
"Yes," said Draco. "But I can remember them all. He used to tell me Dumbledore would cane me if I put a foot out of line ... I was terrified of coming to Hogwarts. Usually he'd lock me in my room, or stop me from having any food."  
  
"I don't know what to say to you," said Hermione. She pulled Draco closer to her, until he was leaning up against her, his head on her shoulder, his sleek blond hair touching hers. "What can I say to make it better?"  
  
Draco didn't reply.  
  
"I never knew any of this," Hermione was saying. "I never knew it at all," she rubbed Draco's back with her free hand.  
  
"I don't know what you can do," Draco said. "I don't know at all. I shouldn't even have told you ... just ... just be here now."  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," said Hermione, continuing to rub his back. Draco was hugging his knees to his chest. "I'm here as long as you want."  
  
Draco couldn't help but feel calmed by those words. He had forgotten ... indeed, he was genuinely beginning to suspect he had never known the meaning, or the value of having somebody around you who would say kind things and mean them. All his life, for the most minor things, his Father had punished him ... as he had said, mostly by locking him up or sanctioning him in other ways, but occasionally with a slap across the face, more often with a stick, a cane or a slipper, and sometimes he had been beaten until he was black and blue. His Mother had never said anything to that ... she had never tried to stop him ... she had never intervened, or bathed his cuts and bruises afterwards. That had always been left to him. The solace he had found during the darker days of his childhood had always been with the House Elves ... and when his Father had found out about that the Elves had been beaten too, and Draco had been kicked so hard he had to be taken to hospital. His Father had bribed him not to tell the Doctors with a new racing broom. He had been ten at the time ... that had only been a few months before he first came to Hogwarts.  
  
But now he remembered how his Father had always made it appear less of a big deal than Hermione evidently thought it was. He had bribed Draco with toys and favours. Perhaps he had been afraid Draco would tell somebody.  
  
He could still remember his first day, walking so nervously along that platform, crowded with other children, of whose company his Parents had done their best to deprive him, preferring the miniature adult they had cultivated, dressing him in foppish suits with lacy cuffs and curls, and dragging him to boring dinner parties where other boring wizards made boring speeches and they were served boring food by boring waiters. That platform ... so crowded. Other kids were an unknown entity to Draco, apart from Crabbe and Goyle. Was that why I never fitted in? Was that why I had to be so nasty to everybody? Was that why everybody hates me?  
  
His thoughts drifted back to his Mother. If she had never stopped him ... surely that meant she couldn't have cared for him either. Potter must have got more attention than he ever did from his parents. Was he an unwanted child? He knew already he was five weeks premature ... he had weighed less than a bag of sugar, and for a few days it had been touch and go whether he would live or not. Had they actually cared whether he lived or died? He had always pictured them standing round his cot on the Children's Ward at St Mungo's, praying silently. What if they hadn't been? It didn't bear thinking about.  
  
Now Hermione was holding him so tightly, and so close to her, in a gesture of such apparent tenderness as Draco thought he had never experienced before in his life. What must she think of him now? She must really hate me even more, he thought. She's only doing it out of pity, out of one-upmanship. So that she could have something to laugh about with Harry and Ron the next day. However, part of his brain ... the part that the vile treatment meted out by the Parents he was now coming to realise he loathed every sinew of, was telling him otherwise. Hermione is a compassionate girl. You've always known that to be so. You always wanted to be her friend. You always wanted that. She's doing what any other true friend would do. As if in answer to his thoughts, Hermione was running her hand through his hair, dabbing at his damp face with the sleeves of her woollen robes. Whispering in his ear.  
  
"You're going to be all right, Draco. Please listen to me. All right. We won't let them get you. You'll be okay."  
  
"Nil illegitimi carborandum," he found himself whispering.  
  
"What was that?" asked Hermione, stroking his hair, amazed at how soft and fine it seemed.  
  
"Pig Latin," said Draco. "It means 'don't let the bastards grind you down.'"  
  
"You sound just like your Father," said Hermione.  
  
Draco smiled, despite himself. "But I have."  
  
"Have what, Draco?"  
  
"I have let them grind me down," said Draco. He wiped his eyes dry with the now sodden tissue Hermione had given him. "It's too late to do anything about that. They've seen me for what I am. I'm a coward, I've got a yellow streak longer than a stampede of wildebeest with diarrhoea. Now they've seen what they can do to me ... what they've done to me, whatever is to stop them doing it all over again?"  
  
"Me, for a start," said Hermione. "We should really go and see Dumbledore ... there's lots we can do to help. We could get you help ... we could try and get you moved to another dormitory."  
  
"What good would that do?" asked Draco. "Everyone hates me ... none of the Slytherins will have me. I can't move Houses. I'm stuck where I am."  
  
"Please say you'll come and talk to Dumbledore with me," said Hermione. "Please?"  
  
But Draco was shaking his head. "We're not telling on them," he said. "Sometimes you have to be sporting."  
  
"That's your Father speaking through you again," said Hermione, still cradling him. "Sod being sporting, sod being so bloody fair about everything, and for once, sod being so effing British about it all!" there was venom in her voice. "Draco, you cry as much as you damn well like. People only get bullied in this world because they don't tell people about it. Well I'm not going to let that happen to a friend of mine."  
  
Draco looked up, hardly daring to believe it. "Since when have I been your friend?"  
  
"Oh come along, Draco," said Hermione. "You don't expect me to go through that with you and not come out knowing you as a friend?"  
  
"But you're a Gryffindor ... I'm a Slytherin."  
  
"Blow the sodding Houses to buggeration!" spat Hermione. "They're what are causing all the trouble in the first place. Anyway ... why can't enemies kiss and make up? It'll be like the Montagues and the Capulets," she saw that Draco didn't have a clue what she was on about. "You've never even heard of Shakespeare, have you?" she said.  
  
"I don't think he's got as far as Chipping Sodbury yet," said Draco.  
  
"You'll have a bloody long wait if you think he's coming," said Hermione. "He's been dead nearly four hundred years. Come on you. Get up ... we've got people to speak to. It's not very warm out here either."  
  
Indeed it was not. Complete darkness had now fallen across the Hogwarts grounds, and with it had come the icy grip of another freezing night. Slowly, the two of them got to their feet, Draco still leaning on Hermione ... and together, they set off back to the Castle, their feet crunching on the footpath.  
  
**************  
  
"And rook to king four," said Ron, looking very pleased with himself. "I think you'll find that's checkmate again, Harry."  
  
"How much do I owe you?" asked Harry, delving into his pockets as the tiny chess pieces finished each other off.  
  
Ron checked his notepad. "I think, five sickles," he said. "I'll take a cheque if you want."  
  
Harry glowered at him, and pulled out the tiny brown leather bag he habitually carried his loose change around in. He counted out five sickles, and handed them to Ron.  
  
"Thanks," said Ron, slipping the little silver coins into his trouser pocket.  
  
"I don't suppose I need to tell you who's buying the drinks next time we get to go to Hogsmeade," said Harry. He stopped himself. He had quite forgotten with all the activity of the past two days, that Sirius Black, a.k.a. Xavier Wilmot, tricorn breeder extraordinaire, had forbidden him to leave the grounds. His disappointment must have showed, for Ron asked him what was the matter.  
  
"Nothing," said Harry, disconsolately.  
  
"I know what'll cheer you up," said Ron, grinning. "Chess!"  
  
Harry scowled. "Not again," he groaned. "Can't you think of something else?"  
  
"Exploding snap?"  
  
"You always win at that too," said Harry.  
  
"We could play for matchsticks if you're feeling skint," said Ron.  
  
"Have you got any matchsticks?"  
  
"Actually, no," said Ron. "We tend not to need them ... on account of being wizards, yeah?"  
  
"It's just one of those things," said Harry. "So what can we play for?"  
  
"Money?" asked Ron, hopefully. Crookshanks, Hermione's overlarge tabby cat, was lying on the chair next to him, purring contentedly.  
  
"Not on your life," said Harry. "Anyway, we should stop ... I still have that essay to do for McGonagall," she, like every other teacher at Hogwarts, appeared to be consistently adding to their already strained workload. "Wonder where Hermione is."  
  
"Probably, she went to the Library," said Ron, stroking Crookshanks behind his ears ... now that Ron no longer had Scabbers, his pet rat and secret animagus to take care of, he had become much more tolerant around Hermione's pet, which had spent most of their Third Year trying to eat the rat. Ron never had much luck with pets ... after Scabbers had come Pig, a gift from Sirius. Pig was a small grey owl, and so outstandingly useless you might just have well have used him as a sponge. He would probably be better at it than delivering the post.  
  
As if in answer to Ron's thoughts, there came a small, fervent tapping on one of the Common Room's leaded windows. George opened it, and Pig flew in. He landed on Ron's unkempt red hair, and dug his claws firmly into the boy's scalp.  
  
"Get off!" yelped Ron, seizing the owl, which was small enough to sit in the palm of his hand. Not unsurprisingly, Pig was carrying a small note. Ron opened it.  
  
"What's it say?" asked Harry, craning over to get a better look. Ron moved to block his view.  
  
"Private," he said ... though Harry could see that it was written in day glow orange marker pen, and someone had very conscientiously drawn little hearts all the way around it. Ron finished reading the note, folded it up very small, and slipped it into his pocket. "Very private," he said for emphasis, fixing Harry with a steely gaze.  
  
George slouched over ... he looked bored. He was bored ... less than a week into his final year at Hogwarts, it would seem that his workload was not yet taxing enough ... not that either Fred or George ever bothered to spend much time doing their homework.  
  
"What's going down?" he asked, perching on the arm of Ron's chair. "Can I read your letter?"  
  
"I said, no!" said Ron, angrily. "It isn't the kind of thing you share."  
  
"Is it from Mum?"  
  
Ron shook his head.  
  
"Is it from any Weasley at all?" asked George. "Is Percy plotting to overthrow the Ministry? I bet it's Charlie isn't it? Killed by a rampaging dragon in the suburbs of Bucharest?"  
  
"It is from nobody you know," said Ron. "That's my final word."  
  
"So why don't you let me read it?" asked George, his bottom lip starting to quiver, although this was blatantly an act.  
  
"It isn't the kind of letter you share," said Ron. "If you'd got it, you wouldn't show me."  
  
George was grinning maliciously. "So Ronald is being sent things he shouldn't be. Illicit materials? Porn by post?"  
  
"Nothing like that," said Ron, blushing fiercely. George turned to Harry.  
  
"Are you in on this too Harry?" he asked. "Going into business are we? Don't worry," he added, catching the look on Harry's face. "I won't tell a soul. I'm sure a business like yours can do without prying eyes. If you ever need a consultant though," he added, glancing furtively around the room, as though he was trying to sell them something that 'fell off the back of a lorry.' "I'd be more than happy to read your stock for you," he clapped Harry on the back, and walked away to annoy Neville Longbottom.  
  
"Malicious git," snarled Ron. Harry declined to comment.  
  
"When's Hermione coming back?" Harry asked, just making conversation. Ron looked up, he had been picking the dirt out from behind his fingernails with obvious relish at the results.  
  
"Didn't she say she had a lot of studying to do?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Unless she's doing any extra-curricular activities. I know for a fact she's finished that essay already ... she was doing it during lunch break today."  
  
"Perhaps she's gone off on some sort of a mission," speculated Ron.  
  
"You mean, like defeating the source of all evil in the world? Or do you mean just reading something?"  
  
"Oh, just reading something," said Ron. "Hermione would read a felly-tone directory if she thought it looked interesting."  
  
Harry nodded his agreement. "Perhaps she's snuck off for a secret rendezvous with her new beau," he said.  
  
"Draco Malfoy? That snide little sod?"  
  
Harry nodded. "They're probably meeting in some deserted classroom right as we speak."  
  
"I'm getting a very nasty mental picture forming in my head here," said Ron. "And frankly, Harry, I'm disgusted at your sordid mentality."  
  
"You said yourself Draco had a massive crush on her," said Harry, defensively. Ron shrugged.  
  
"Yeah, maybe," he said. "But I don't see Hermione acting on it. She's got better taste than that. She wants someone dashing, handsome ... well dressed ... with a flair for charming the ladies."  
  
"Hey, you just listed all my best qualities," said Harry, grinning.  
  
"I was thinking of me actually," said Ron, absent-mindedly running a hand through his hair. "Anyway. Hermione isn't stupid. She knows where getting in with Draco Malfoy must inevitably lead."  
  
"Draco leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to the Dark Side," said Harry, putting on a squeaky voice.  
  
"You what?"  
  
"Forget it," said Harry. "It's nothing important. Let's get off the subject. Let's talk about how much we all hate him!"  
  
Ron leaned forwards. "I'll drink to that," he said. "Pompous arse ... wandering around in his swanky designer cloaks. Bet he has to spend ages picking out what he wants to wear in the mornings. Probably has designer socks too."  
  
Harry smiled again. "So bloody superior too. Tries to talk to us, then when we don't react with immediate enthusiasm ... and frankly, who can blame us after the last four years, he starts getting all hoity-toity and going on about being mortally offended. Well, what did he expect? Does he want us to throw a party in his honour?"  
  
"Very probably," said Ron. "Just ignore him, Harry ... he's not worth bothering with. If he tries to talk to you again, just give him the cold shoulder. Remember my maxim for dealing with him ... I find it helps. Want to hear it?"  
  
"Go on."  
  
"Unhappy Malfoy equals happy Ron," said Ron. "Unhappy Malfoy squared is even better than that."  
  
"I think you two might have a bit more respect," said Hermione, who had crept up on them unannounced. Harry stopped in mid guffaw, and turned to look at her.  
  
"What's up with you?" asked Harry. "Where have you been?"  
  
Hermione didn't answer the question. Instead she sat down in a vacant armchair next to them, and said. "You really are being very insensitive."  
  
"What came over you?" asked Ron, who was staring at her with a look of confusion on his features. "There's nothing wrong with taking the mickey out of Draco Malfoy. Everybody does it. Everybody hates him."  
  
"You never actually stopped to think about how he was feeling did you?" asked Hermione, her voice sounding angry with the both of them. Inside, she knew she had to give them a chance ... of course they couldn't know what was happening ... what had happened to Draco that evening, but she was also telling herself to really go to town on them both. How could they behave like that? "You never even bothered to consider how Draco might see himself."  
  
"Stop calling him Draco," said Harry. "It's Malfoy to us ... Draco sounds like, like you like him."  
  
"I'll call people what I damn well want, Potter!" snapped Hermione, rounding on Harry, who cowered in his chair. "For your information. Draco has spent the last two hours crying his eyes out!"  
  
"Good," said Ron, with feeling.  
  
"Will you shut up for one second?" asked Hermione. "He's too scared to go back to his dormitory. You don't know what they've been doing to him ... and I'm not going to dignify either of you savages by telling you! I respect other people's privacy, unlike some of you..."  
  
"I never..."  
  
"Shut up! You know where I just came from? I just spent half an hour with him in Dumbledore's office, trying to sort this mess out. Now you can think what you like about Draco ... but just leave off him, okay? He's been through more than you could reasonably expect him too."  
  
Harry was just about to say that he had too, but thought better of it, and kept his mouth shut. This was probably not the time to put speech to his thoughts.  
  
"He's not horrible at all," Hermione was saying. "He's just very confused and lonely. He needs people who care for him. Besides that he's gentle and kind and he has more civility in his little finger than either of you do in your lousy bodies!"  
  
With that, she got up, shot them both a very angry glare indeed, begrudged them a 'good night' and disappeared up the spiral staircase to the girl's dormitories.  
  
Harry and Ron both looked at each other. Harry, aghast at how Hermione seemed suddenly to have turned on everything she held dear. They were her friends! They always had been ... almost always. He had always thought they would remain friends ... until the previous night, he had thought there might be a possibility they could be more than friends. He shook his head in disgust. How could he ever have thought that? Was Hermione really prepared to throw away everything for Draco Malfoy, whom Harry knew to be a hateful, nasty little worm? He also knew that Hermione had thought the same way. Whatever could have induced her to change her mind so quickly? It was less than a week since their return to Hogwarts, and on the train she had been saying how much she would hate to end up falling in with Malfoy. How she knew she could never not hate him. Harry was confused. He wanted to sit down, with Hermione now, and talk about it, rationally and sensibly ... without shouting, threats and recriminations. But somehow such a scenario seemed as unlikely as him getting his Parents back.  
  
**************  
  
As if in protest against their attitude, Hermione declined to sit next to them at breakfast on Wednesday morning. This was no great wrench to either Harry or Ron under the circumstances ... they had both been planning to ignore her completely. It came as something of a surprise to find that she had had exactly the same idea.  
  
Harry, curious as to the reason for her alarmingly pro-Draco outburst that previous evening, kept sneaking glances at the Slytherin table, where, as he had been doing for some days now, Draco was sitting alone, separate from all the others. Even the new, First Year Slytherins were declining to talk to him. Harry wondered what the reason for this sudden exclusion could be. After all, it had to be acknowledged that Draco Malfoy was, in any situation, the life and soul of the Slytherin party, which was on the whole a quiet party, with bad music, little cubes of cheese and pineapple on sticks, and people standing round the edge of the room with glasses of punch, trying to avoid looking at one another ... surveying them now, Harry thought ... they weren't half an ugly bunch.  
  
Draco was looking over in Hermione's direction ... but Hermione didn't seem to have noticed, she was deep in conversation with Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. He was wondering vaguely why Harry kept turning round. He so hoped she hadn't gone and told them. The previous evening he had poured his heart out to her. He had never told anybody about his Father and the beatings before, and it had come as a shock to him that he had actually been able to. She had seemed sincere. All the same, people are good at throwing the sincerity act, he thought. I've done it often enough myself. One thing was now for certain, there was no way he could go through with his 'task,' not now, not having shared the moments he had with Hermione ... not even if she did still hate his guts. He would have to destroy the plants. Maybe Chaldean and his Father would forget.  
  
He was soon to realise that under no circumstances would Chaldean simply forget about him. As the teachers filed into the Great Hall, each of them still bleary eyed and tousle haired, Professor Flitwick still in his blue stripy pyjamas and dressing gown, Draco was shocked to see two very familiar figures. One of them was the man he was now coming to believe that he hated ... his Father. The other was none other than Artemis Chaldean. Both of them seemed to be scanning the House tables for any sign of Draco. Draco moved a cornflakes box in front of him, partially obscuring their view. He felt like he was about to vomit.  
  
Lucius Malfoy was deep in conversation with Dumbledore, who looked monumentally unimpressed, and with whom Draco had had a long talk last night in the company of Hermione. He had been shocked that the man had been prepared to show him such kindness, although realistically, as he had said, there was very little he could do. Thankfully, he had had a large box of tissues, which Draco had gratefully used to clean himself up.  
  
Chaldean, on the other hand, was looking around the Hall still. Draco watched as his eyes flitted to, first the Ravenclaw table, then to Hufflepuff, then Slytherin, then Gryffindor, and then finally back to Slytherin. Draco crouched down behind his cornflakes box, but was conscious of how conspicuous his hair was, and also that he hadn't had it cut before coming back to school. He continued with his breakfast.  
  
He was just leaving the Hall, believing that he had actually managed to get away from them without them spotting him, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and that same ice cold chill running through his whole body as he had felt that day he first met Chaldean.  
  
"We really should have a word, Draco," said Chaldean. "It seems your circumstances are not conducive to the work we want you to carry out."  
  
"H ... how do you know?" asked Draco.  
  
"Your Father and I are very powerful wizards, Draco," said Chaldean, steering him in the direction of an empty classroom. "It is not hard for us to check up on your activities. Your Father has been away on business for some days, in Naxcivan, there has been trouble with the workers on your estate there ... he has not seen what has been happening. I however, have ... and I have told him all ... it was a long train ride up here after all, we had to find some way to pass the time."  
  
"I'm not afraid of him," said Draco, gritted his teeth as Chaldean pushed him roughly through the door of the classroom. He gestured to one of the desks.  
  
"Sit down."  
  
Draco did as he was told. He folded his arms, there was a scowl on his face. "I wouldn't care if I never saw him again. I hate him for what he did to me ... I hate you too."  
  
Chaldean turned up his nose, and snarled at Draco in the manner of an angry Alsatian. "Silence," he hissed. Draco sank back into the hard wooden seat.  
  
His Father swept into the room ... wearing, as was his custom, hand made dragon hide boots with buckles of pure eighteen carat gold, and a cashmere travelling cloak, much like the one Draco had. He closed the door behind him.  
  
"I have obtained permission from Dumbledore for us to use this classroom," said Lucius, sitting down at the teacher's desk. "It was not hard to convince the doddery old fool I was merely here to comfort you in your hour of need."  
  
"How, what do you know?" asked Draco.  
  
"Dumbledore owled me last night. At first I could barely believe what I saw written before me on the parchment. It appears my Son is having trouble with bullies. It appears he spent upwards of twenty minutes with the headmaster last night. It appears he was bawling his eyes out. Draco, what have always told you about crying?"  
  
"You said, don't," said Draco, looking down at the woodblock floor. Be submissive, his brain was telling him ... show humility ... maybe he won't hit you too hard.  
  
"I said don't, Draco. I am pleased to see that you remember the incident. You may recall I lost the deal ... a million Galleons, it was worth. Gone. I have always held you personally responsible for that."  
  
Draco wanted so badly to storm up to that desk, to slap his Father hard ... to pay him back for all the hurt he had caused Draco during his childhood. But he knew he could not. He wasn't strong enough. He was a weakling, just as he had always known and his Father had always suspected.  
  
"It would at the very least have kept you comfortably in tuck for a few years. Now you must scrape by on your trust fund. However I am in half a mind not to give it to you. Chaldean has told me everything and you have in my eyes, proven yourself unworthy to be my son."  
  
Draco slumped in his chair.  
  
"However, very few Malfoys have ever suffered the dishonour of being disowned by their family," Lucius went on. "I am not going to do this to you. I am here only to ask you some question, to which you will provide the answers forthwith."  
  
Draco nodded. "Yes, Father," he found himself saying. Even though he so desperately wanted to, he was somehow unable to disobey him. Thinking about it ... hadn't that always been the way? However much he wanted to go against his Father's word, he never ever had done. It was only now that this struck him as odd.  
  
Lucius Malfoy had stood up, and was pacing back and forth across the room in front of the blackboard, his boots thudding on the floor. As he did so he held his hands behind his back. Chaldean was standing purposefully between Draco's chair and the classroom door.  
  
"Why have you not yet mixed the Dragon's Blood potion?" asked his Father. "Did we receive our correspondence on schedule? Did we take notice of it?"  
  
"The letter came," said Draco. "Mixing the potion takes time. I have to break into places, steal things. I'm not a born thief ... it isn't as easy as it looks."  
  
"You seemed a fair enough thief when you took food from the kitchens at home," said his Father. Catching Draco's facial expression, he added. "Yes, Draco ... I know all about that. The House Elves are easily bribed ... and are more stupid than even you would care to give them credit for."  
  
The sun came out from behind a cloud at that point, and for a moment a shaft of light falling through the high windows illuminated Lucius Malfoy from behind, giving him the look of an angel descending from heaven.  
  
"I was hungry," retorted Draco.  
  
"You were being punished," said Lucius, sitting down again. He began to drum his fingers impatiently on the old mahogany desk. "Why, Draco, is it so difficult to break into somebody's office at night for someone who has always been so adept with his fingers?"  
  
"Doctor Jones suspects somebody," said Draco. "I ... I just thought it would be safer to leave off for a couple of days."  
  
"Safer for whom?" asked Chaldean. "I want results, Malfoys, and you both seem to be being very awkward about giving them to me," he raised his fist, and banged it down on one of the desks, making the others rattle in response. "I want the Potter boy on my side. One would assume Draco would want the same. You did school him in the Dark Arts, as I made clear when first he was born?"  
  
"Indeed I did, Master," said Lucius, almost grovelling. "It ... may have proved difficult at times ... but I have always believed I did my duty by our agreement."  
  
"I will say no more," said Chaldean. "I will leave it to you to discipline the boy. I will meet you in Hogsmeade, in the Three Broomsticks, no later than eleven of the ante meridian clock," he turned to Draco. "I trust you will listen to your Father's words wisely boy," he said. "Or you might find yourself in a situation more dire than your current one. Voldemort is still gaining in power. Soon he will be able to challenge the order of things again. This must be stopped ... for my sake, as well as for yours. I bid you good day, Gentlemen," he gathered his long, red cloak around him, and swept from the room, letting the door bang shut behind him.  
  
For a moment, Lucius looked a bit stunned. Then he said. "You see what you are putting us through, Draco? This tomfoolery ... this unnatural perversion must be stopped instantly. Chaldean is a powerful wizard ... maybe more powerful than Voldemort, maybe even more powerful than Dumbledore. It would not be wise to cross him, Draco, especially not in your current situation. You are in danger of landing yourself in very hot water."  
  
"I will do better," said Draco, bowing his head. He was still shaking all over.  
  
"The Dragon's Blood potion must be brewed and administered before next week is out, lest you desire another visit from us, Draco," said Lucius. "There is, one more thing I wish to talk to you about."  
  
He stood up again, and stalked over to the desk where Draco was sitting. He cast a terrifying shadow across the floor. Draco looked up into his face, looking for something ... some semblance of a human heart ... some kind of pity. What he saw were the same cold eyes he had always seen.  
  
"Father?"  
  
"We cannot have you crying, Draco. It *simply* isn't cricket. You *do* remember what I always told you?"  
  
Draco nodded. He raised his arm to shield himself from the blow he thought was coming ... but it didn't. Instead, Lucius leant closer to the terrified boy.  
  
"Do I scare you, Draco?"  
  
Draco shook his head hurriedly.  
  
"Good. Perhaps I should tell you the story again. Your ancestor, my great-grandfather, Salazar Malfoy, served under Cecil Rhodes. You do know what Cecil Rhodes did?"  
  
"No Father?"  
  
"It is less than prudent to appear fond of such a man in these ... ah, enlightened post-colonial days," Lucius went on. "He was the man who conquered Zimbabwe, Malawi and South Africa for the Queen. For all his faults, he was a brave and great man. Salazar Malfoy was likewise a brave man. On the eve of the Relief of Mafeking, in 1901, he staggered into the British camp, gravely wounded. A patrol of Boer commandos had shot him through the chest. The bullet had hit a rib near the heart and glanced off. He was in deep, incapacitating shock, and he died later that evening with the best regimental doctors at his side. Not a tear touched his cheek. He died with a photograph of his sweetheart in his hand, but he did not weep for her."  
  
"Things are different now," began Draco. "Welcome to the Nineties, Father. You get used to it after a while."  
  
"I always thought you were strong, Draco. I always thought I had toughened you up. Alas it seems I have bred nothing less than a coward. Perhaps I should have administered heavier punishment than I did."  
  
"No, Father," began Draco. His Father grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.  
  
"Do not speak, Draco, *until* I have finished speaking!" he hissed. "I thought I had taught you politeness as well."  
  
He released Draco, who sunk back into the chair, and clutched his neck with both hands. There were livid red marks where Lucius had grabbed him.  
  
"Stand up Draco. I cannot find words to express my disappointment in you. I thought I had made a man of you ... and evidently you are still a little boy. I now know I should have been harsher."  
  
"Please..."  
  
Lucius struck him across the face. Draco winced, but clenched his jaw and stared resolutely ahead. He knew what his Father wanted ... he wanted to make him cry ... well, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of that. Lucius raised his hand to strike again. Draco shut his eyes ...next thing he knew he was thrust rudely to the floor, taking two desks with him ... clattering, he fell face down on the floor, and lay there. He could feel intense pain in his left leg. He could hear his Father's breathing as he knelt down next to him. He shut his eyes tighter.  
  
"This is for your own good, Draco," Lucius Malfoy made a point of always carrying either a whip or a riding crop, ostensibly to scatter minions who got in his way, although it was more often used on Draco. Draco heard a harsh cracking sound as he was hit across the back. He screamed.  
  
"Silence, Draco!" Lucius hissed. "Is it too much for me to expect you to take this without reaction?" he hit Draco with the riding crop. Draco screamed again.  
  
"Be quiet!"  
  
Draco was shaking uncontrollably ... he bit his lip to prevent himself from crying, so hard that he drew blood, but he could not help himself. His Father struck him repeatedly, and each time Draco's howls of protest grew louder. He prayed for something to happen, for someone to come ... and then he knew no more.  
  
**************  
  
When he opened his eyes again, something green was covering his body, and he could feel himself being held very tightly in somebody's arms. That somebody was stroking his hair and saying, over and over. "Hush, hush, Draco. You're all right."  
  
"What happened to him?" someone else asked. It was a Welsh accent, Doctor Jones. Now his Father spoke.  
  
"He became upset, I think he fell, or fainted," said his Father. He continued to hug Draco tightly, and repeated those words. "You're all right, Draco, you'll be okay."  
  
"Help me," breathed Draco.  
  
Doctor Jones bent down next to them. They were back in the Slytherin boys' dormitory, with its fine tapestries, sitting on Draco's bed. "How are you feeling, Draco?" she asked.  
  
"Not good," said Draco. His Father was sitting at his side. He released him, and Draco sank gratefully back onto his pillows. His father continued to bathe his forehead with a flannel.  
  
"I take a very dim view of this sort of thing happening in my House, Mr Malfoy," Doctor Jones spoke, turning to his Father. "I must admit I had absolutely no idea anything like this was happening."  
  
"Evidently not," said his Father. His voice could have frozen time.  
  
"I will be having extremely harsh words with Crabbe and Goyle about this," said Doctor Jones. "I think their parents should also be informed. As for this, regrettable incident. I can only offer you my sincerest apologies."  
  
"It will suffice," said his Father. "The main thing his he has told us he was in trouble. That takes a great deal of courage."  
  
Draco closed his eyes again. His whole body ached.  
  
"You should be very proud of him," said Doctor Jones. "There aren't many boys who would go through that."  
  
"Indeed I am," said his Father. He virtually spat these last words, and Draco could tell he was lying. "If you will excuse me, Doctor Jones. I would like to stay by my son's side a while longer ... ah, unfortunately I am meeting a colleague for drinks in Hogsmeade within the hour, and I should really be going."  
  
"Do you want us to get you a room in Hogsmeade?" asked Doctor Jones. "I think Draco would appreciate it if you stayed with him for a day or two."  
  
Draco wouldn't, but he didn't say anything.  
  
"Alas I cannot," said his Father. Draco's heart leapt. "I have several vital meetings to attend in the next few days. As a matter of fact, I cancelled one to be here today."  
  
"I understand," said Doctor Jones. "Of course your business cannot be put on hold. Shall I show you out?"  
  
"I can find my own way," said his Father. "Thank you all the same. Goodbye, Draco. Keep your chin up."  
  
There was a creaking sound as he opened the squeaky door, then slammed it shut. Draco could hear his footsteps receding down the corridor outside.  
  
Doctor Jones came back over to his bedside. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked. Her voice now seemed full of compassion and understanding. Was it possible he had underestimated her?  
  
"A little," lied Draco.  
  
"I will be having words with Crabbe and Goyle," she said. "I cannot let physical violence go unpunished in this school. Draco ... is there anything else you want to tell me?"  
  
Draco thought of all the things he needed to tell someone ... that he had been enlisted to fight Voldemort, that he was planning to drug Harry Potter and use him as a dupe, his feelings for Hermione, the beatings. But he merely shook his head. "No," he said. "There's nothing at all."  
  
"Very well," said Doctor Jones. "I have obtained permission for you to rest here if you want. I have informed Professor McGonagall why you are not attending Transfiguration. Rest here, Draco. I'll be back to check on you."  
  
**************  
  
Hermione's display of solidarity with Draco at the breakfast table was obviously set to become a permanent feature of her relationship with Harry and Ron. Their first class of the day was Divination, with the incomprehensible Professor Trelawney, so they didn't see her again until morning break. Usually, she would have asked Harry how many times Professor Trelawney had predicted his, usually violent death, which was a favourite habit of hers, and one Harry had learned to live with. Then they would have had a good laugh about it. This time however, when they arrived in the Gryffindor Common Room, pockets bulging with sweets bought from the Tuck Shop, and tried to sit with her, she turned up her nose and went away somewhere else.  
  
"She must still be smarting about the Malfoy thing," said Ron, as she disappeared up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. "Pretend to ignore her."  
  
"I never, ever would have suspected it of Hermione," said Harry, shaking his head almost sorrowfully. "Not in a million years," he opened a packet of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and put a stick of it into his mouth.  
  
Ron shook his head mournfully. "I don't get it either," he said. "It's like ... you know, one minute, everything's fine and dandy, and the next she's flouncing around telling everybody how nice and misunderstood Malfoy is."  
  
Harry agreed with this ... something was rotten as far as Hermione was concerned, and things didn't improve as the day wore on. Draco reappeared around lunchtime, now limping slightly, as if affecting some old, imagined injury. Once again he sat alone at the Slytherin table, and once again was bombarded with insults, catcalls, and peas. Hermione took great care to sit at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table with Fred and George. However Ron had already told them about what seemed to have come over her, and so as soon as she sat down, they stood up, and went to sit with Harry and Ron. Thus Gryffindor's internal politics were played out in the Hall for all to see.  
  
By late afternoon, virtually the whole House knew about Hermione's sudden change of heart, and one and all agreed that for Hermione to have seemingly switched sides was bad enough ... everyone ... everyone knew that Gryffindors and Slytherins had always hated each other ... they always would hate each other ... it was one of those things that you just didn't question. Hermione had questioned it, and for that, there was no doubt in any of their minds that she was thus declared unworthy to be representative of the House. An uneasy air hung over the Common Room that evening ... indeed, it was so quiet that Professor McGonagall stuck her head through the portrait hole to see why they weren't making their customary noise. She was astonished by what she saw. Most of the Gryffindors were gathered around the huge open fireplace, some with mugs of cocoa or hot chocolate in their hands, watching the flames flickering. Hermione Granger, whom Professor McGonagall had always had down as one of the more popular students, was sitting on her own on the other side of the room, reading a book and apparently unaffected by the fact that everyone was resolutely avoiding her. Professor McGonagall shook her head in bemusement, before heading off to see Dumbledore. None of the Gryffindors noticed her.  
  
Professor McGonagall had been meaning to go and see Dumbledore anyway ... there seemed to be a problem with the leaky pipes in the Gryffindor girl's bathroom, and she wanted to get Xavier Wilmot ... sorry, Sirius Black, onto it as soon as possible. The fact that Sirius had had no formal training in the fine art of plumbing, in fact had never even picked up a spanner unless it was to tinker with his motorbike, didn't bother her in the slightest. She reached the statue that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office, whispered the password, and proceeded up the stairs. To her surprise, the heavy oak door at the top was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.  
  
The office was bathed in flickering candlelight, and of Dumbledore, there was no sign. Fawkes the phoenix was roosting on his customary perch, and the large antique clock boomed a sonorous tick that echoed off the fine panelled walls. Professor McGonagall stepped gingerly into the room. To her surprise, there was someone sitting in one of the large leather armchairs ... someone she had not noticed before.  
  
"Professor McGonagall," came a voice she knew well of old. "What brings you here on such a night?"  
  
She spun round. The man sitting in the armchair stood up, and as he stepped into the firelight, revealed himself to be none other than Severus Snape ... but a Severus Snape unlike the one she had known before. His long lanky hair was gone ... shaved off completely. He was as bald as a coot. Gone too was the sinister goatee, and without it, he looked ten years younger. However, this was not all ... as she looked closer she could see a more hollow, sunken look to his eyes. His face was gaunter and without colour.  
  
"I was ... a few things I want to talk to Dumbledore about," said Professor McGonagall. "I wasn't expecting you to be here."  
  
"Me neither," said Snape. "Though it is good to be back at last."  
  
"We all thought you were staying in Europe until Christmas," said Professor McGonagall. "The students have been told you are on sabbatical."  
  
Snape smiled. "Believe me, Minerva, I have no desire to teach any students whatsoever at this time. My replacement. Gwyneth Jones isn't it? She is welcome to them."  
  
"How did ... what? I mean, are you all right?"  
  
"A little peckish, Minerva, but otherwise unharmed," said Snape, shivering inwardly as he remembered the horrors of the past few months.  
  
"Dumbledore is?"  
  
"Rustling up a little kedgeree, I believe," said Snape.  
  
"Kedgeree, at this hour?"  
  
"What better time is there?" asked Snape. "And it has been so long since I last had any. So, Minerva, you must tell me everything that has been happening. I see Hogwarts still exists, but what has been happening within the walls?" he gestured Professor McGonagall to one of the large armchairs, and she sank into it's all consuming bulk. Snape sat down as well.  
  
"Some very strange things indeed," said Professor McGonagall. "The Gryffindors are behaving very oddly."  
  
"No more than usual?"  
  
"Likewise are the Slytherins," said Professor McGonagall. Snape paled. "Is something the matter?"  
  
"No, no," said Snape. "In what way, oddly?"  
  
"I'm worried about Hermione Granger."  
  
"You've finally caught on? We've all been worried for years."  
  
"Severus, if you're going to answer every one of my observations with snide comments, I might as well say nothing further."  
  
"I'm remiss. I apologise," said Snape.  
  
"None of them are talking to her. You should see the Common Room ... it's like a ghost town in there. Most of them are toasting crumpets, Ronald Weasley was actually reading a textbook ... of his own volition."  
  
"This is worse than them trashing the place?"  
  
"I suppose you're right," said Professor McGonagall. "They're just not acting normally. Normally whenever I go in there a dozen paper aeroplanes hit me within the first few seconds, and I sometimes need an air horn to get them to shut up."  
  
"What about the Slytherins?"  
  
"They seem to have turned," said Professor McGonagall. "Draco Malfoy seems to be leading some sort of one man crusade against them. He keeps sitting on his own and he doesn't seem to want to have anything to do with them."  
  
"Unusual for Malfoy," said Snape. "Usually he is the life and soul of the party."  
  
"Exactly," said Professor McGonagall. "I've told you often enough the trouble he gives me in Transfiguration ... except today, he turned up five minutes late, and even then none of the Slytherins would have anything to do with him. They made him sit with the Hufflepuffs. He didn't say anything all lesson, even when I asked him a question. He's picked up one whopper of a black eye from somewhere."  
  
Snape looked up, an expression of interest on his face. "Carry on," he said.  
  
"There's a rumour going round ... I heard it from some Sixth Form Ravenclaws earlier ... that he was beaten up by Crabbe and Goyle. I know for a fact that Doctor Jones hauled them into her ... your office this afternoon and gave them a bloody good ticking off for something. They came out looking utterly shaken. What I do know is that Draco spent nearly half an hour up here with the Headmaster last night ... and Hermione was with them."  
  
"You think there's something between them?" asked Snape.  
  
"Heavens no," said Professor McGonagall. "Usually it's all any of us can do to stop all six of them massacring each other. Potter, Weasley and Granger versus Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. The clash of the titans."  
  
"I didn't think you could have meant Draco and Hermione were seeing each other," said Snape. "They hate each other. She's a Gryffindor, he's a Slytherin. That's how it's always been. You should see them in Potions classes. Sometimes it gets like the Somme ten minutes before the battle in there. Give them a Gatling gun and Lord alone knows what would happen."  
  
"Perhaps I should have a word with Hermione," Professor McGonagall mused.  
  
"And I with Draco. Something must be up ... he always seemed such a confident boy, although with that God awful Father of his, I fail to see how he could be anything but."  
  
"What's the problem with his Father? I mean, we all know he's not a particularly nice chap ..."  
  
"Minerva, the man is horrible," said Snape. "He's an absolute cretin of a man. God knows how he got his money. I always had him down as a sinister character."  
  
"Of course he's sinister," said Professor McGonagall, nodding. "Remember that report in the Prophet when Arthur Weasley's lot raided his mansion?"  
  
"No, I mean very sinister," said Snape. "I don't know what kind of life Draco has at home, but my guess would be it makes for an unpleasant time."  
  
"What are you getting at?"  
  
"It's probably nothing," said Snape. "It was a long time ago, back when Draco was a First Year. I was checking the dormitories one evening, quite late, as the children were going to bed. It must have been about three days into the term. Anyway, I walked into his dormitory just as he was getting ready for bed. Well ... there were horrid red marks all over his back ... the boy was black and blue. Dreadful bruising, such as I have never seen. It was like someone had taken a whip to him."  
  
"You think he's been being beaten?"  
  
"I was sure of it," said Snape. "I backed out pretty sharpish. I never mentioned it before."  
  
"You're chilling me," said Professor McGonagall. "I think you should have words with him ... definitely."  
  
"I'm not sure that would be a good idea," said Dumbledore, entering the office through another door. He had evidently been in the process of going to bed when Snape arrived, for he was wearing a fine camel hair dressing gown and a nightcap. He was pushing a small metal trolley, on which stood a covered platter, steam issuing forth from around the bottom. Both of them were quite embarrassed, for neither of them had any idea how long he'd been outside, or how long he'd been listening. "Your kedgeree, Severus."  
  
He seemed unsurprised to see Professor McGonagall. Indeed, he sat down behind his vast desk, and beamed at both of them. "So," he said. "The gang is all here. We just need Professors Sprout and Flitwick and we could have a midnight feast!"  
  
"Professor, I wanted to talk to you," started Professor McGonagall.  
  
"And I you, Minerva," said Dumbledore. "There is much we have to discuss."  
  
"We were talking about Draco Malfoy," said Snape. "Minerva believes he is behaving oddly," he removed the lid from the plate, and inhaled deeply as the aroma of smoked haddock hit his nostrils. He took up a fork, and began to eat.  
  
"He is an odd boy," said Dumbledore, looking hungrily at Snape's dinner. "He came to see me last night ... in the company of one Hermione Granger. They were both in quite a state. Draco had been crying. He looked pale and spent."  
  
"Draco never cries," said Snape. "I think his Father sees it as a point of honour."  
  
"Bloody stupid man then," said Dumbledore. "I gave him a handkerchief to wipe himself up, and then we had quite a long chat. He told me a lot of things, including how the Slytherins appear to have turned against him. He's being bullied quite badly. Doctor Jones is already on the case. But he omitted to mention that he was being abused by his Father. Interesting take of yours Severus. It puts a new complexion on the events of this morning."  
  
"What happened this morning?" asked Snape.  
  
"I owled his Father as soon as he left my study last night," said Dumbledore. "He caught the first train up from London, and arrived very early this morning, with some colleague, a very shady looking character, I didn't catch his name, but I think it might have been Chaldean."  
  
"That would be Artemis Chaldean," said Snape. "He was a Death Eater back in the olden days ... but he left after he fell out with You-Know-Who. He was cleared of all involvement too, because he got out before You-Know-Who was at his most powerful. Odd, though, that Lucius Malfoy would be seen with him. Sorry, Headmaster, do go on."  
  
"They arrived this morning, and breakfasted with me in the Hall. Afterwards, they asked if they wouldn't mind Lucius having a talk with Draco, to smooth things over, reassure the lad. I offered them my office but Malfoy said any old room would do, so I let them use the History of Magic room. Chaldean stormed out a few minutes later, evidently very vexed by something. A few minutes after that, Malfoy came out holding Draco in his arms. Apparently the boy had fainted with the strain of it all. They put him to bed and comforted him and so forth. The odd thing is, I would have expected Malfoy to have remained by his Son's bedside, however he made off with talk of pressing business elsewhere."  
  
"Most un-fatherly," said Snape. "So you believe Draco didn't faint?"  
  
"If what you say you saw is true," said Dumbledore. "I suspect Lucius Malfoy had more than just quiet words with Draco."  
  
"It is something that needs looking into," said Snape. "Should we inform the Department of Magical Social Security?"  
  
"We ought really," said McGonagall. "The evidence is incontrovertible."  
  
"I believe we should be absolutely certain before we drag the officials into this," said Dumbledore. "We are in loco parentis anyway ... it would be foolish to act with anything less than complete authority and from a position of responsibility."  
  
"I will speak to Draco in the morning," said Snape.  
  
Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. "Now, Minerva," he said. "I believe you had something to tell me about Miss Granger."  
  
Professor McGonagall looked up ... as ever, she was shocked by Dumbledore's apparent ability to read whatever was on the minds of his staff. "I, yes," she began. "It seems she is under some sort of strain too."  
  
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.  
  
"It's the other Gryffindors ... they seem to have isolated her. You should see the Common Room ... it's like a prison on the eve of an execution," said Professor McGonagall. "I'm worried about her. Even Harry and Ron don't seem to want to talk to her."  
  
"Not even her closest friends?" asked Dumbledore. "Well Minerva, if events weren't so twisted these days, I would tell you to look into this and to speak with all three of them. However I think it is fairly clear what is going on here."  
  
"Headmaster?"  
  
"Hermione is a most dutiful young lady," said Dumbledore. "She is wise, witty, and blessed with a temperament that enables her to go above and beyond the call of duty. By this I mean to say she is the proverbial Good Samaritan. Hermione accompanied Draco up here last night. Now, I do not believe Draco would have had the courage to come here on his own, I think he is rather scared of me for some reason. It is my belief, Minerva, that Hermione found Draco in whatever state he was in, and tried to help him. She has performed a noble and selfless act by coming to the aid of an enemy."  
  
"Forgive me, but I don't see what this has to do ..."  
  
"I haven't finished yet," said Dumbledore, raising his hand. "Somehow, the Gryffindors have found out that she helped an enemy. Now I know and appreciate how the Gryffindors and the Slytherins have always been at each other's throats. Imagine, if you will, how you would feel if a great friend of yours suddenly, went over to Voldemort, for want of a better example. I believe you would react as all humans do. You would feel betrayed, you would not want that person as a friend. Remember Minerva that they are still children, and however much you would like them to act towards one another, they will continue to behave as children do for the remainder of the time they have left in that state. Harry and Ron are merely reacting how they believe they should, based on their misinformed positions. It is no real fault of their own. Sadly, the selfless people of the world are so often turned upon by their friends."  
  
"Harry Potter has more sense than that," said Professor McGonagall.  
  
"Harry is a sensible boy ... and yes, he is blessed with admirable qualities. But he is a child still, with all the wants and fears and actions that that entails."  
  
"What should I do with Hermione then?" asked Professor McGonagall.  
  
"Try and get them to talk," said Dumbledore. "I am not going to say that it will solve anything. But it may at least help."  
  
**************  
  
Draco looked nervously at the floor. He was standing in the dank, dark corridor outside Snape's office. It was a little before half past ten in the morning, and he had no idea why Jones had summoned him. He took a deep breath, and rapped three times on the door.  
  
"Come," a voice barked. It wasn't Jones. Draco pushed open the door.  
  
To his surprise, he found Professor Snape sitting at his desk, relaxing in his chair, with a small pot of coffee standing nearby.  
  
"You're back, sir?" asked Draco.  
  
"Indeed," said Snape. "Doctor Jones has very kindly lent me her office for a little while. I must say, she was redecorated in interesting taste. You can definitely tell this is now the domain of a lady. Do sit down, Draco. I wanted a word with you, because of a conversation I had with Dumbledore."  
  
Draco's heart sank. Not this again. Crabbe and Goyle had been given a month's worth of detentions, and the previous evening, he had been able to go to sleep without fear of nocturnal reprisal for the first time in several days. Surely that was enough. He had secret potions to brew.  
  
"I thought we'd sorted that out," said Draco, sitting wearily down before Snape's ... Jones' desk.  
  
"We were comparing notes," Snape went on. "I remembered an incident from your First Year, which lead Dumbledore, myself and Professor McGonagall to draw alarming conclusions. I want to ask you some questions, which I would like you to answer as honestly as you feel able to. You do not have to tell me anything you do not want to. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir," said Draco.  
  
"I would like to start with your domestic life, Draco," said Snape, toying with a pencil. "Do you consider yourself happy at home?"  
  
Draco didn't know where to start. No ... of course he didn't. Usually the only place he could feel happy was back at Hogwarts, and now it seemed as though even that pleasure was to be denied him. "No, sir, not really," he said.  
  
"I suspected as much," said Snape, offering what was clearly his definition of a supportive smile, although in practice it somehow turned out to be more of a grimace. "Would you like to tell me why?"  
  
"I guess it's my parents," said Draco, timidly, unsure as to whether it was really right to discuss such personal things with his teachers. "They try, but they're not very good at it."  
  
"In what way?"  
  
"I don't think they wanted me," said Draco. "I think I was an accident. My Mother is, well, she just doesn't know how stuff works."  
  
"What sort of stuff?"  
  
"Kids ... me," answered Draco. "She ignores me a lot, pretends I'm not there."  
  
"She neglects you? So, what about your Father?" asked Snape. Draco hadn't noticed that he was obscuring a Quick-Quotes Quill behind a pile of unmarked exercise books. The expression on his face was grave. To Snape, Draco seemed to be cowering, as though he was still mortally afraid. Clearly he was not a happy boy, and maybe never had been. Neglect was a serious offence after all.  
  
"My Father?" said Draco. "He wants the best for me."  
  
"Does he say that?"  
  
Draco nodded. It was the truth after all. "He always says everything he does is for my own good. He says he wouldn't do it if it wasn't."  
  
"He wouldn't do what?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "That doesn't matter," he began.  
  
"I'd rather you told me," said Snape.  
  
"He shouts a lot. Sometimes he upsets me."  
  
"Have you ever cried because of something he said?"  
  
"Yes," nodded Draco. "But he doesn't like me doing that. Not even when I'm cutting onions ... not that I've ever done that, of course."  
  
"Why should that be?" asked Snape, leaning closer.  
  
"He doesn't think we should, that's all. He thinks it makes me weak or something. He always wanted me to be the strong one. I think he thinks I'm a disappointment."  
  
"You said he shouts at you a lot," said Snape. "Does he ever go further than just shouting?" he looked Draco in the eye for the first time, and was startled to see he looked tearful.  
  
"I don't want to..."  
  
"Did you tell Hermione Granger whatever it is that you don't want to tell me?" asked Snape.  
  
At first, Draco was enraged that what he thought he had told Dumbledore about in confidence had been told in turn to others. But then he looked up, and he saw the look in Snape's eyes, and he could somehow tell that the only thing they wanted was for him not to be downcast. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, I did."  
  
"Won't you tell me, Draco? You have my word that your confidence will be respected," said Snape.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, grimaced, and then spoke. "Sometimes he hits me," he said.  
  
"Is that all?"  
  
"No," choked Draco.  
  
"Has he ever assaulted you physically?" asked Snape.  
  
Draco felt horrible inside ... all twisted, ill, ashamed of himself. Ashamed of himself for never having the courage to stand up to his Father. Ashamed of himself for allowing himself to be beaten and bullied into submission. Ashamed of himself for the fact that Snape knew ... that Snape knew everything, or had, at least, somehow found out about it. Ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated. He tried to tell himself not to cry, which would compound his humiliation, make it complete. But now that no longer mattered to him. All the shocks of the past week ... the revelations of Chaldean and his Father, the onus of such awesome responsibility resting on his shoulders alone, the failed attempts to be friendly, the bullying, the angry creatures hiding in between his bedclothes, the icy showers and apple pie beds, their grinning faces, leering, jeering at him. All the pain and anguish and hatred he had ever felt or experienced seemed to be building up inside him ... building up to an earth shattering crescendo. He could no longer help himself. He no longer cared what Snape thought or said or did. Nothing really matters to me, he thought ... not anymore. I am undone.  
  
"Yes," he said. Yes ... such a simple word, so easy, so apt ... no effort at all required to say it.  
  
"Often?"  
  
Draco nodded. He blinked, bit his lip, and hung his head.  
  
"How?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Usually he'd, he'd just hit me round the head ... sometimes on my back, all over. He used whips, or riding crops sometimes," his voice was quiet, small and still.  
  
Snape felt physically sick.  
  
"I think we should stop," he said. "I think you've told me quite enough to be going on with. I want to thank you for such rare honesty, Draco."  
  
"It hurts," breathed Draco. "It still hurts."  
  
"What does?"  
  
"Everything," said Draco, he gestured to himself, pointing to his heart.  
  
"We all hurt sometimes," said Snape. "Even I do, and I've not been nearly as brave or as courageous as you have. You're a nice guy, Draco ... nice guys don't always come last. I promise you that."  
  
"I'm horrible," said Draco. "Why else would everybody hate me? I can see that now."  
  
"Why would everybody hate you, Draco? Not everybody does," said Snape. "I don't ... I have tremendous respect for you. I suspect Miss Granger doesn't hate you either."  
  
"I just need some proper friends," sniffed Draco. "I want to be liked ... but I've been too horrible for that to happen here."  
  
"Even the most hardened criminals have redeemed themselves before now," said Snape. "Look at the examples set to you by others, Draco. That will give you strength."  
  
"They'll never trust me," said Draco. "Look what happened when I tried to talk to Potter and Weasley. They told me where to get off, and then the other Slytherins did the same for talking to them."  
  
He sat, slumped in his chair. The wall clock behind Snape was ticking slowly ... it was coming up to eleven o'clock ... it would soon be time for morning break. That was another class he'd missed. He looked up. To his surprise, Snape was smiling at him. Then he did something that Draco could never remember having seen him do before. He stood up, walked round the desk to where Draco was seated. He put his hand on his left shoulder, leant down close. Draco could feel his breath on his cheek.  
  
"I don't think you should try to get through this on your strength alone," said Snape. "I think you still have a lot of thinking to get done. I don't want you to be ashamed to feel that too. None of us do."  
  
"Thank you," whispered Draco. "Might I have a tissue, sir?"  
  
"I don't know where Doctor Jones keeps hers," said Snape. He felt in the pockets of his robes, and drew out his finest, powder blue silk, monogrammed handkerchief. He handed it to Draco, who blew his nose loudly.  
  
"Sorry," said Draco. "I'm sorry."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Snape. "On the contrary ... I almost feel as if it is I who should be apologising to you. Draco ... I'm going to leave you for a while. I ought to talk to Dumbledore."  
  
"Please don't tell him."  
  
"Draco, I have to ... but believe me, he will respect your wishes and your thoughts, and will not use them lightly or unwisely," said Snape. "He is probably more trustworthy even than me."  
  
He took his hand off Draco's shoulder. Stood up, turned, and said. "You may stay here as long as you wish ... I think, under the circumstances. I will be back shortly."  



	6. Old Foes, New Loves

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
DISCLAIMER.  
  
Most of the recognisable characters, concepts and locations belong in their entirety to J.K. Rowling and other production companies ... not me. I'm not affiliated with any of the official stuff either.  
  
THE STORY SO FAR.  
  
Draco's 'mission' to subvert the Dark Side on behalf of a rebel faction by courting Harry's friendship has gone haywire after he fell for Hermione. Meanwhile, Draco's Father is angry at the lack of progress with the Dracaena Draco project.  
  
Now read on ...  
  
PART SIX. OLD FOES, NEW LOVES.  
  
"I don't think," said Hermione. "I've ever been happier than I am when I'm around you." It was Thursday night, quite late, and the Library was nominally closed. Hermione however, knew how to get around that particular obstacle ... it didn't bear thinking about, the number of times she had had to bend rules to partake of some late night studying.  
  
Draco smiled. "I'm pleased," he said. "It makes me happier when you are."  
  
"Don't be sappy," said Hermione. "You know I don't like it when you get like that."  
  
Draco smiled again. "I can't help it," he said. "Being around you has done wonders for me ... I feel happier than I did before. Happier than when I had all those ghastly Slytherins milling around me all the time. Even *I* always realised that my jokes were crap ... and they always still laughed at them. That pissed me off."  
  
Hermione nodded. "I like your jokes," she said.  
  
"That's very sweet. But I bet it's not altogether true. Anyway ... I'm just pleased I have you," said Draco, he put his head on Hermione's shoulder. "Did anybody ever tell you that you have lovely hair?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "I can honestly say," she said, "that nobody ever did. Probably that's because I never did before."  
  
"It goes well with your eyes," said Draco thoughtfully.  
  
Hermione giggled. "I can't imagine your hair being any other way."  
  
Draco put his hand to his hair, and felt it. "I like my hair the way it is," he said. "You like it then?"  
  
"Yeah ... I just can't think how you would look if you were dark, I mean, had Harry's hair or something."  
  
"Perhaps I should dye it," said Draco. "There must be some sort of hair colour spell floating around somewhere. Anyway."  
  
"Anyway," agreed Hermione.  
  
"You still bothered about Harry?" asked Draco, looking up.  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"He had a go at me this morning," said Draco. "Told me where to get off ... that sort of thing, you know the drill."  
  
Hermione still felt bound to apologise for Harry. "I'm sorry about that," she said. "If you knew him ... I mean knew him well, as a friend ... you wouldn't ever have to see him like that. Harry is just like you in a lot of ways ... he's kind and gentle, and I know he wouldn't hurt anything if it wasn't hurting him first."  
  
"I'm sure he is nice," said Draco, feeling a pang of guilt at his treacherousness. However much he tried to put such thoughts out of his mind, they kept coming to the front of his mind, like scum rising to the top of a coffee cup. "He's, just, well, he hates me, doesn't he?"  
  
"I think, yes, I suppose he does," said Hermione, who knew he did. She thought she was trying to spare Draco's feelings, when what she hadn't realised was that he didn't especially want his feelings to be spared at that point.  
  
"Spare me the claptrap, Hermione," said Draco. "I know he hates me ... don't worry, it doesn't really bother me."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Shouldn't it?"  
  
"I don't know," said Hermione. "I would have thought it mattered to you. I mean, you said yourself you don't have any friends."  
  
Draco fixed Hermione with his gaze, and then spoke. "Hermione ... I don't like Harry ... I won't make a secret of it. I don't believe we can ever get along ... I mean like, as he and Ron do. We can't be firm friends ... we're always going to be in some sort of cold war situation, we can only ever peacefully coexist."  
  
"Carry on," said Hermione.  
  
"I'd like for us to peacefully coexist," said Draco. "But, you know, I think, that isn't going to happen. Harry is stubborn as a mule, there's no denying that."  
  
"Well, yes," conceded Hermione. "When he gets an idea in that head of his, it can be difficult to stop him acting on it ... even if it does mean breaking school rules," this was anathema to Hermione.  
  
Draco nodded his agreement. "I'd like if I could get along with him," he said. "Not hostile, not bosom buddies though. That would be too awkward ... and you know, I appreciate that I did and said some things that were nasty, that, well, I think you know who I was being influenced by, and who was trying to turn me into an obedient little clone of himself. He did some pretty nasty things to me as well."  
  
Hermione found there was no way she could deny this. "Shouldn't we talk about something nicer?" she asked.  
  
"Are you trying to get me to flatter you again?" teased Draco.  
  
"Not necessarily," said Hermione. "Though sometimes flattery is very nice."  
  
"I've said what I think about your eyes and your hair and your face," began Draco. "I can't really say what I think about anything else without sounding sordid. Um," he cast about for something to say.  
  
"How about I flatter you a bit?" said Hermione. "You have a kind face, Draco."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Draco shifted his weight awkwardly ... their position was not a comfortable one ... but then the Library had never really been designed for such purposes.  
  
"I think, actually, you're very handsome," Hermione went on.  
  
"Hermione ... I," Draco began, but Hermione had put her arm around him, and was drawing him closer.  
  
"Ssh," she said.  
  
"I think I might have fallen in love with somebody," whispered Draco.  
  
Hermione held him closer, and stroked his cheek with her free hand. "Just who might that be?" she asked.  
  
"I think it's you," said Draco. "I don't think I ever remember feeling this way about anybody in the world before. Not even about my parents. This feels ... like it's so much more intense."  
  
"What would your Father say?" asked Hermione, continuing to stroke him.  
  
"I'd kill him if he tried to do anything to stop me," said Draco. "I don't care you're a ... not from a wizard family."  
  
"That's very sweet of you," said Hermione. She could feel Draco's hands on her back, but she did nothing.  
  
"Tell me, Hermione ... how do you feel about me?" asked Draco.  
  
"Draco ... I don't know. This is coming very quickly," said Hermione, a little awkwardly, for in truth, she still did not know how she really felt. "I do think you are a very attractive young man. I do think ... I don't know ... but I think I do, and I think you think I know too, so there's no point ducking the issue anymore is there?"  
  
Draco shook his head mournfully.  
  
"Yes, Draco ... I do feel the same way," she said.  
  
Draco felt funny inside. He couldn't help but wonder what his Father would say ... that made him feel happier still. It proved to him that such a man couldn't influence the way his child developed. With a sudden, overwhelming rush of joy, Draco realised that his Father had no control over his thoughts, over his actions, over what he felt, his emotions, over whether he cried or kept quiet, over whether he fought, backed down or made peace, on whether he spoke to whom he wanted to speak to, and not to who his Father decreed it would be fitting for him to speak to.  
  
What was most important, his Father could no longer influence who he was to love. That was a choice Draco had now realised was open to himself to make. That was left for him to decide, not to some relic of a bygone age, cowering in a dusty old mansion. Not for someone like his Father, not for someone like Chaldean, or Voldemort. Now Draco knew for certain that he was magnificently, head over heels in love with Hermione Granger, and that must surely change his whole life from that point forwards. He felt warm, glorious sensations rushing over his body as he embraced Hermione, smelled her hair and her perfume, and then felt that itchy sensation in his eyes ... he was off again.  
  
"Don't cry, Draco," sniffed Hermione, although in truth, she was doing exactly the same. "I'm here. You've won ... I think you've got me. I ... what am I saying, I know you've got me."  
  
"I don't care anymore," said Draco. "I realised that I will still want to be with you, and to care for you, and cherish you, no matter what my Father might say, and then I realised I was free of him. I don't have to do anything he wants me to. I can do what I want to do, and the first thing I want to do is ... is to confess something to you. But first, I'd like to kiss you."  
  
He did.  
  
**************  
  
Harry slowly parted the curtains. He could hear them ... hear them not very far away ...but he was not sure where they were, or even what they were doing, even though he could hear heavy breathing.  
  
The next room was furnished luxuriously ... there was a roaring fire, leather armchairs set around it, a man's heavy travelling cloak slung casually across the back of one of them. There was an old horned gramophone, and some records strewn across the surface of an expensive table by the window. There was a Tiffany lamp on the table. One whole wall was lined with bookcases, filled with heavy and important looking volumes. There was another door at the far end of the room ... his feet tapping on the polished wooden floor, Harry walked over to the other door, taking care not to step on the beautiful Oriental rug, and opened the door cautiously. The noises from within stopped.  
  
"Who's there?" Hermione's voice. Harry flattened himself against the panelled wall.  
  
"I said, who's there?"  
  
Harry's heart was pounding fit to bust. Should he reveal himself? Should he stay hidden? The hangings were drawn tightly around the four poster bed that stood in the centre of the room, so he couldn't see who else was there ... though he had a feeling.  
  
"Draco ... go and see who it is."  
  
Harry heard movement from behind the hangings. They parted, and Draco looked out ... but it didn't look like the Draco Harry knew ... his normally pale face was flushed a vivid red, and his normally immaculately groomed hair was all over the place.  
  
"I don't see anybody," said Draco. "Want me to go look around outside."  
  
Hermione didn't reply, though she had obviously nodded, for Draco got out of bed, Harry was shocked to see he was wearing Quidditch World Cup underwear, and picked up the silk dressing gown lying on the floor. He pulled it on, and tied the cord tight around his waist. Harry tried to move behind one of the chairs. Draco wasn't looking in his direction yet. He felt sick. He crouched down, fearing that his trainers would squeak on the wooden floor. Draco padded over to the window, and peered out ... then he scanned the room again.  
  
"I don't see anybody, darling," said Draco. He removed the dressing gown again. There was a large red mark on his back. Harry suspected it might be a birthmark ... but then again.  
  
"Then come back to bed," said Hermione.  
  
"You probably heard a cat outside."  
  
Draco disappeared behind the hangings again. A moment later, Harry heard Hermione's voice, whispering. "Oh ... Draco."  
  
He woke up suddenly. His bedclothes and pyjamas were drenched in sweat, wrapped tightly around him. Slowly, he reached out, and drew back the hangings around his bed. It was still pitch dark outside, and Harry could hear rain drumming incessantly against the window panes.  
  
"Ron, are you awake?" he hissed. There was no reply from any of the other beds. Harry assumed not then. He held his head in his hands, and tried desperately to pretend there was no way he could have dreamed what he just dreamed.  
  
**************  
  
Draco pulled away from Hermione abruptly.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't doing that right was I?"  
  
Hermione smiled at him. "I wouldn't know," she said. What she did know was that she had somehow been awakened by Draco. She had done nothing like this before ... ever. But something inside of her was telling her that Draco had got it just right. She looked into his eyes. His face was slightly flushed. "I wouldn't know," she repeated. "I've not actually done ... you know, like that, before."  
  
Draco smiled, his teeth appeared to glow in the half light of the Library. "I ... um, I wouldn't either," he said. "I've not ... rather, that is to say."  
  
"Oh ... um," said Hermione.  
  
Draco nodded rather meekly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm doing this all wrong. We, um, we, um, should have candles and stuff."  
  
"Don't worry," said Hermione, who had never ever suspected that her first kiss would happen in the Library, though maybe she shouldn't have been so surprised, judging by how much time she spent there anyway. "I think you're being very romantic."  
  
Draco looked hopeful. "You do?"  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
Draco's face fell. "I must seem horribly naïve," he said.  
  
"Not in the slightest," said Hermione.  
  
"Um," said Draco.  
  
"Don't worry, Draco. Nobody is ever going to judge you on how good you are at snogging somebody," said Hermione. "Least of all me."  
  
"That's good to know," said Draco, looking sheepish. He was still a bit confused himself, his brain a minefield of conflicting emotions, each of which seemed to be being set off in close sequence.  
  
"Would you like to ... try again?" asked Hermione, she stroked his face again. Draco smiled, and brushed a stray lock of her hair out of her face.  
  
"I'd be honoured," he breathed.  
  
This time, the kiss lasted a full two minutes.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Draco. "That time I took too long, right?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "That time," she said. "You did it just right."  
  
Draco looked surprised. "Oh," he said. His normally pale face was flushed a vivid red, and his normally immaculately groomed hair was all over the place.  
  
"You sound disappointed," said Hermione.  
  
"No ... um, not at all," Draco said, hastily. He smiled at her again. "Well ... actually, you know, it's kind of awkward and everything."  
  
He shifted his weight slightly, as if trying to hide something.  
  
"In what way?" asked Hermione.  
  
"In ... it's just, well, just strange," said Draco. "A week ago you wouldn't have given me the time of day."  
  
"A week is a long time in politics," said Hermione. "Anyway ... I think you realised what your capabilities are. I think you recognise that there's more to life than ... well, than what there was before. If you see what I mean?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"It's just, I'm worried about Harry and Ron," said Hermione. "I already said how neither of them are talking to me."  
  
"So talk to them," said Draco. "Stop being silly, and go talk to them. Believe me, you'll have nothing to lose, and anyway, you said you had them wrapped around your little finger."  
  
"Whenever did I say that?"  
  
"The other day," said Draco. "When we were talking, when I was first talking to you, you know, in the Library."  
  
"That was then, this is now," said Hermione.  
  
"Tomorrow morning," said Draco. "At breakfast ... I want you to sit next to them ... I want you to talk to them. I want to see you three friends again."  
  
"You're being unusually diplomatic," said Hermione.  
  
"You mean I'm not normally?"  
  
Hermione shook her head hurriedly ... that was not what she had meant. "Not at all," she said. "That didn't really come out sounding quite how I had intended it to. I meant ... you seem to be very concerned for my welfare."  
  
"One good turn deserves another," said Draco. "And God knows where on Earth I learned that with a Father like mine. I wouldn't have got through the last couple of days without you. You're to thank for the fact that I'm not up on the Astronomy Tower trying to kill myself right now. You ... you gave me the strength to go and get myself sorted out."  
  
"I'm touched you think so," said Hermione. "But I think, really, that you did that. I just helped you along."  
  
Draco looked up, into her eyes. "You know Professor Snape came back this morning," he said. "He was talking to Dumbledore. He had a word with me."  
  
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Snape's back?" she repeated. "Does that mean Doctor Jones is packing her bags?"  
  
Draco grinned. "No, actually I asked him that. He's living in his rooms down in Hogsmeade, so as Doctor Jones can serve out her contract. He'll be back after Christmas."  
  
"I thought he was on sabbatical."  
  
"He said he came back," said Draco. "He said the south of France wasn't really what he thought it would be."  
  
Hermione couldn't imagine Snape enjoying himself in the south of France. He was the sort of man who seemed as though he was eminently more suited to somewhere windswept, cold and barren. She could imagine him being happy in Newfoundland, the Falklands, or maybe Siberia. Not in St Tropez however.  
  
"Anyway," said Draco. "I, well, I had to tell him everything."  
  
"You told Snape?"  
  
Draco nodded. "I'm afraid so," he said. "It seems frankly ludicrous, doesn't it?"  
  
Hermione nodded. "I do have to admit."  
  
"Well ... he was saying ... actually, he was very nice. He's always been nice to me."  
  
"That's because you're a Slytherin," said Hermione, stroking his hair. "If I were you, I wouldn't read anything into that."  
  
Draco made a face, though Hermione could tell it was only in pretence. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "I told him everything," repeated Draco, looking down at his shoes, which were badly scuffed ... he had not bothered to clean them for some days now. "You understand ... everything?"  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"About my Father, and stuff like that," Draco went on. "It was the most difficult thing I ever had to do in my life. I would have liked you to have been there. I think ... I don't mean to be bigheaded, but I will be ... I think you would have been proud of me," he said.  
  
Hermione did not take this statement to mean Draco was being at all boastful, and she told him so. Draco smiled his thanks.  
  
"It was very difficult," repeated Draco. "I kind of, well, I always saw Snape as a teacher, first and foremost, and you know what teachers are like. They aren't really the sort of people you can reliably have that sort of relationship with. They're not really the sort of people you would actually want to have that kind of a relationship with. But, well, he listened to me, and that helped a lot."  
  
Hermione could somehow not imagine Snape ever being voluntarily nice to anybody, listening and providing an ear, or a shoulder to cry on ... the concept seemed alien. She took Draco at his word however.  
  
"Anyway," said Draco. "Let's backtrack a bit ... I really think you should talk to Harry and Ron ... just give it a whirl."  
  
"Perhaps I should," said Hermione.  
  
Draco was smiling at her. Privately, what he was about to reveal to her was something he had decided a couple of days before. There was no way he could brew that potion. No way. This was a decision he had made as soon as his Father had left his bedside. No matter how dire the consequences became, he was not going to lower himself to those depths. This was the first time he had ever given voice to his fears about what he had been told to do.  
  
"What's the matter?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I wanted to tell you something," said Draco. "I thought you ought to know the reason I tried to become friends with you ... because ... if you found out from anybody else, or after this was all over, I think you might never forgive me."  
  
Hermione was slowly moving away from him. "Draco?" she said, her voice wary.  
  
"Please," said Draco. "I know you'll think less of me for it ... but I just want you to hear me out ... I just want you to know the truth, because I'm fed up with lying."  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"I told you about a visitor my Father had. His name was Artemis Chaldean."  
  
"I know that name," said Hermione.  
  
Draco nodded. "I know you do," he said. "Artemis Chaldean was once a Death Eater ... but, well, he didn't like the way You-Know-Who was going ... so he walked out on him. Now that You-Know-Who is undergoing something of a renaissance, he is running scared, and he believes You-Know-Who must be destroyed."  
  
Hermione was looking at him, open mouthed.  
  
"But I thought you ... your Father, wasn't he a ...?"  
  
"My Father turned," said Draco. "My Father has been lying to me for the last fourteen years. He has been supplying Chaldean with information, helping him, working for him. Hermione, he was calling him Master, he was bowing, it was sickening."  
  
"Wait, you still support ... you've confused me."  
  
"*I'm* confused ... I don't know what I want, or who I support anymore," said Draco, staring at the floor. "It's partly the reason. Anyway, Chaldean believes there is only one person who is strong enough to defeat Voldemort once and for all, and that is Harry. So he wanted Harry ... and that was why I had to try and make friends with you guys ... he, he gave me drugs to do it with."  
  
"What drugs? Magic ones?"  
  
Draco nodded. "That cutting you read to me ... those plants. Dracaena Draco ... they're called Dragon Trees in popular parlance ... mind altering, they can be used as a truth drug, the taker cannot help but reveal everything, and submit to anything he is asked to do ... they," he choked slightly, and Hermione could see he was once more on the verge of crying. "They were used by Voldemort and the Death Eaters when he was powerful, first time round, to reveal the whereabouts of his enemies ... he used them on Secret Keepers, ordinary wizards, even Muggles. You're Mu ... Muggle born ... you could have no idea how horrible it must have been ... that fear is still lingering today. But, he wanted me to use them on Harry ... and they said I'd be punished if I didn't."  
  
"So this running to me ... this, all this," Draco could see a look of disgust on Hermione's face. "It was an act? An act, to get close to Harry?"  
  
"At first..."  
  
"Did you mean any of those things you said to me?" asked Hermione, who was looking tearful. "Did you actually mean any of them. They, they aren't things I take lightly. I thought we had something."  
  
Draco's face was a mask of horror. "No, please," he started. "At first, yes, at first it was an act ... but then, then, well, I fell for you ... big time. You helped me, and got me through all this ... and then I started to realise that I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it at all. That's why I wanted to tell you this. I wanted to put it behind me, to get rid of it. Please believe me?"  
  
Hermione threw her arms around him, and kissed him again. "I do believe you," she said. "You ... what you told me, it isn't something you tell on the spur of the moment."  
  
She released him, and fixed him with her gaze. "I think you really thought about telling me that, didn't you?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"That proves how much you must love me," said Hermione. "Draco ... that, that kind of a ... that was selfless of you. I feel I should be thanking you."  
  
Draco was looking at his shoes again.  
  
"What about your Father? You said you couldn't possibly use the drugs now."  
  
"My Father told me that no Malfoy has ever been disowned before," said Draco. "Well, disowning people works both ways ... I think I might make him the first."  
  
"He'll cut you out of the inheritance."  
  
"Then I'll just have to make sure I amount to something, won't I?"  
  
"You amount to plenty in my eyes," said Hermione, which was pretty sickening, but people say things like that when the relationship is still in its early stages.  
  
"So it's all okay?"  
  
"Draco ... it's fine," said Hermione. She looked up at Draco's earnest face ... so strange, she thought, how once she had thought it was harsh and pointed, and now, she felt so differently about that fundamentally unaltered visage.  
  
"Perhaps you'd, like to try that, um, thing again?"  
  
**************  
  
Sirius closed the office door behind him, and stole quietly into the deserted office. Taking out his wand, and whispering, "Lumos," he proceeded over to the other side of the room. Doctor Jones' elderly barn owl, Ophelia, was dozing in her cage, her head snuggled underneath her speckled wing.  
  
There were several large metal filing cabinets ... which should they contain what Sirius hoped they did, would confirm to him the suspicions he had been hiding to himself for the last fourteen years. He thought he had seen it in her eyes when they had been introduced the previous week. He hoped it could still be true.  
  
Taking care not to wake Ophelia, Sirius pulled open the drawer of the first filing cabinet he came to. As he suspected, inside were literally hundreds of buff coloured files, which somebody had very carefully and conscientiously sorted into chronological order. Sirius suddenly understood why she had been giving so many detentions lately.  
  
He pulled open the file marked '1981' and tipped the contents onto the already untidy desktop. As he had suspected, there were old cuttings, a couple of yellowing copies of the Daily Prophet. One of them, Sirius noted morbidly, bore the dateline 'November 1st 1981' and beneath that, the banner headline 'Voldemort Presumed Dead; Four Men In Custody.' Beneath that were smaller headlines, 'Ministry in Crisis; Melchett Claims Nothing to Live For', 'Reign of Terror Over?', 'Who Served the Dark Lord?', and right at the bottom 'Ministry's Bright Stars Extinguished. Harry Potter Only Survivor of Voldemort's Last Attack.' Sirius baulked a little ... this had been the last paper he had ever bought, on his way to track down Pettigrew. His copy was probably still lying on his dining room table back home ... the one place he had not dared go since breaking out of gaol. He read on.  
  
'James and Lily Potter (22), both described as 'rising stars' in the Ministry of Magic's firmament by Prime Minister Arcturus Melchett, and as the 'last, best hope for peace' in the pages of this volume just last week, were the last victims of a senseless and tragic reign of terror in which many hundreds of people, both wizards and Muggles, perished. Information at this time is limited to that disclosed by the MCID and the MLES in the last few hours, and details of events will become clearer as time goes by, but it is believed that the Potters and their young son Harry were attacked in their Godric's Hollow home by Voldemort late last night. Early rumours state that Harry, fifteen months old, is the sole survivor of the attack, which has left officials puzzled. It remains unclear exactly how he survived the use of the forbidden Killing Curse, and the exact details will probably never be known. Harry is currently in the care of Muggle relatives, where he was placed by Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore shortly after the attack. This paper would like to pay tribute to the bravery ... ' here Sirius choked ,' ... of the Potter family and their son, on behalf of all the writers and editors of this edition.'  
  
Sirius replaced the paper in the folder ... and it was then that he spotted what he had been looking for. A small, folded piece of purple notepaper. He picked it up, and unfolded it. A couple of pressed rose petals fell into his hand, and the smell of the cologne he had doused it in hit him hard. It was the letter all right ... he could recognise his handwriting.  
  
'6 Tennyson Mansions,  
Palmeira Drive,  
Headingley,  
W. Yorks,  
  
September 16th 1981,  
  
Dear Gwyneth,  
  
Please answer my calls. I am getting desperate. I know I still love you, and I believe you still feel the same way. I pray that what we are going through is just a temporary problem, and that we can sort it out, and return things to how they were. Please answer this letter, my life depends upon it.  
  
Yours, as ever,  
  
Sirius.'  
  
She had kept it! The very fact that she had kept it surely confirmed that she was still harbouring feelings for him.  
  
He smiled as he remembered how it had been, and how they had met. It had been one of those literal, movie cliché moments. It had been during Sirius' sixth, and her seventh year at Hogwarts ... the Halloween Ball. They had danced together until their feet were sore, and then they had danced again. For nearly five years everything had been perfect ... Sirius had been on the verge of proposing marriage, indeed, he had even been to the classiest jewellers on Diagon Alley to buy a diamond engagement ring, and then, then she had told him she was seeing someone else.  
  
He had been so distraught, he had turned down the job of Secret Keeper, and it had fallen to Peter Pettigrew to ... to. He stopped, he had never looked at it that way before in his life.  
  
He heard a key in the lock. Quickly, he scooped up the spilled papers, and tried to stuff them into the file, but he was not quick enough. The door creaked open, and Doctor Jones came in. She gave a start when she saw Sirius standing over the desk, but did not seem altogether surprised to see him there.  
  
"Sirius," she said, turning a brilliant shade of red. "I wasn't expecting to see you ... I just got in from the pub."  
  
"I ... um ... shouldn't you be screaming and hurling things at me at this point?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Only if you want me to," said Doctor Jones. "Actually, to be honest, I'm surprised you didn't do this sooner. It's just like the Sirius Black we knew and loved."  
  
Sirius put his hands behind his back. "I was, just reading some of the old newspapers, reliving old memories," he said. Doctor Jones, however, had caught sight of the purple notepaper, which had somehow slipped off the desk and was lying on the floor.  
  
"And to catch up on your old love letters," she said, stooping to pick it up.  
  
"Ah ... yes, sorry about that," said Sirius.  
  
"It truly doesn't matter," said Doctor Jones. "I've been expecting you to be curious ... actually," she took a step closer to him ... she was still holding the letter. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I was *hoping* you would be."  
  
"How do you mean?" asked Sirius.  
  
"The thing with, with that other guy," said Doctor Jones. "Well, let's just say it didn't last very long at all. He dumped me for a younger man, and I, well, I would have waited for you, but you were in Azkaban, so I threw myself into my work, at the complete expense of allowing myself any semblance of a normal social life," she added. "My work became my spouse. I was at the Institute until 1990, and then I decided I wanted a change of scenery, and so I moved into teaching. When I heard you were out ... my heart leapt ... I hardly dared hope you would contact me."  
  
"I didn't dare," said Sirius. "That would have been the first place they would have looked for me."  
  
"I understand that," said Doctor Jones. "Then, when I took the job here, to replace Professor Snape for a term, I, when Dumbledore told me about his plans, to keep you safe here, disguised and unrecognisable ... oh Sirius, I was ecstatic."  
  
She looked up at Sirius. He was smiling broadly.  
  
"Do you think it could still work?" he asked.  
  
"We could, we could give it a go," said Gwyneth.  
  
"Whatever would the students say?" asked Sirius.  
  
"You wouldn't tell them," said Gwyneth. "It would be our little secret. Besides, imagine how Harry would react!"  
  
"How do you mean?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Well ... Harry doesn't like me at all," said Gwyneth. "He doesn't remember me at all, obviously ... and I know I'm strict around kids ... but that is just the way I am, and there isn't anything I can really *do* about it."  
  
"I could have a word with him," said Sirius.  
  
"What would you say?" laughed Gwyneth. "Harry, please be nice to Doctor Jones, I want to shag her!"  
  
Sirius grinned. "I always loved your laugh," he said  
  
"Do you remember the day we met?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
Sirius nodded. "I was sixteen, you were seventeen."  
  
Gwyneth laughed. "I was Welsh, you were an English bastard!"  
  
"Remember how happy everybody was? Do you remember James and Lily?"  
  
Gwyneth was smiling. "We could have taken on the world," she said. "I think James wanted to ... pregnancy slowed him down a bit, as it does tend to," she added.  
  
"Do you remember the party they threw when they moved to Godric's Hollow?"  
  
"I remember dancing to Buck's Fizz and the Weird Sisters," said Gwyneth. "And I remember everybody had their cameras out for Harry. He was having a great time! You remember he was trying to eat his toes all evening?"  
  
"That's one thing the kid has to be thankful for," said Sirius. "No baby photos."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure," said Gwyneth. "Not all of them got blown up when the house did. I still have some."  
  
"I have a whole album full," said Sirius. "I'll have to show him some day. Tragically though, the one Lily took of him naked on a rug perished along with her. They had it framed on the mantelpiece ... must have been blown up in the explosion."  
  
"That was probably for the best," said Gwyneth. "At least as far as Harry is concerned."  
  
"I will have a word with him," said Sirius. "Perhaps I can bring him round."  
  
"It won't do you any good," said Gwyneth. "I know that he's set dead against me ... and, well, I don't like that, but, I don't think things are going to change so easily. I still bear a lot of hurt from what happened."  
  
"How do you mean?" asked Sirius.  
  
"When Lily and James were murdered, and Harry survived," said Gwyneth. "I suppose I was, angry with Harry for living, when my dearest friend had perished in her prime. I resented that for several years ... and, oh Sirius, you're the first person I've *ever* opened up to about this! It isn't easy for me."  
  
"Carry on," said Sirius.  
  
"I don't think I like Harry anymore. I don't think I ever can. I fell in love with their baby, not their son. I, well, I think I hate him Sirius. I hate him for surviving, and I don't want to hate him. I'm sure, I'm sure he's lovely. But I just can't stand to look at him. I caught myself being, oh, horrible, so horrible, and so out of character for me, but I was saying things to him in the lessons, this last week or so. I regret saying those things," she looked up into Sirius' eyes. "Believe me ... I don't want it to be that way."  
  
"I don't know what to say."  
  
"You can tell me ... why do I have to feel this way?" asked Gwyneth. "Believe me, I don't *want* to."  
  
"I believe you," said Sirius. "There is no question at all of that. But I don't see what I can do."  
  
There was a sudden knock on the door that made both of them jump.  
  
"Come in," said Gwyneth, hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her robes.  
  
The door opened a crack, to reveal Snape, who was wearing a very long woollen robe, and looked soaked to the skin.  
  
"Can I help you, Severus?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"Actually, it was Sirius I was looking for," said Snape, stepping into the office ... he appeared to be looking at the new decoration with something approaching disgust. "Dumbledore would like to speak with you, urgently."  
  
**************  
  
Dumbledore was sitting at his giant desk, with Fawkes perched on his shoulder, eating birdseed from his hand. He looked up as Sirius came in.  
  
"Ah, he returns," he said. "Do take a seat, Sirius ... I have some things to discuss with you."  
  
Sirius sat down, and waited while Fawkes finished dinner.  
  
"I know it's late," said Dumbledore, as if anticipating what Sirius was about to say. "However, this is quite important. It concerns your Godson."  
  
"What's he done?"  
  
"It is more a case of what he isn't doing," said Dumbledore. He released Fawkes, who flew away back to his perch. "Professor McGonagall brought the matter to my attention just the other day."  
  
"What's happening?" asked Sirius.  
  
"He appears to have fallen out with Miss Granger," said Dumbledore. "Neither he nor Ronald Weasley are actually talking to her at the minute. It is as if they wanted to have nothing to do with her. She has been sitting on her own at mealtimes, and during classes."  
  
Sirius thought back to the Care of Magical Creatures class he had given that morning. Now that Dumbledore came to mention it, he had indeed noticed that Hermione had been sitting on the opposite side of the classroom to Harry and Ron, and both parties had been stoically ignoring one another throughout the course of the entire lesson.  
  
"Professor McGonagall has spoken to both boys," said Dumbledore. "Yet she has drawn a complete blank. They both seemed to have clam up completely the moment she tried to talk to them. Now my theory is that this has something to do with you know what."  
  
"Voldemort?"  
  
"No, silly ass," said Dumbledore. "Sex, Sirius, sex. After all, would you feel comfortable talking to Professor McGonagall about such matters?"  
  
Sirius shook his head. Dumbledore seemed to empathise. "You see, neither would I. The very thought leaves me dumb with fear," he said.  
  
"You think Harry and Hermione are...?"  
  
"Not in the least," said Dumbledore. "I believe they are both far too sensible for any such shenanigans. Nevertheless, there can be no denying the fact that this is a school, and in this school we have a large number of teenaged children, and these matters do need to be dealt with. I was wondering ... could you have a word with Harry?"  
  
"You think he needs a ... the talk?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Maybe," said Dumbledore. "But I rather think that whatever the reason for this tryst may be ... he will be more willing to talk about it with you."  
  
**************  
  
Sirius left Dumbledore's office in something of a state of shock. When he had taken the job at Hogwarts, he had assumed that his duties would be limited to the same ones that Hagrid had always undertaken. Now it appeared he was being press ganged into the role of some kind of guidance counsellor, which didn't suit him at all.  
  
Even though it was getting on for half past midnight, he headed up to Gryffindor Tower anyway ... it had, after all, been eighteen years since he had last seen it, and he was anxious to have a look around.  
  
To his surprise, he found it had changed very little ... the large armchairs were still there, and the tables, and the fireplace of course. He was mildly gratified to see that his name was still carved onto the wall, together with a date, 25.12.75. He remembered the day well. It had been one of the best Christmases he had ever passed at Hogwarts. Sighing as he reminisced, he sat down in one of the armchairs ... just as comfy as they had been back in his day, and closed his eyes. The fire was still smouldering and giving out heat.  
  
A noise startled him and made him jump. He turned round in his seat, to see the portrait hole swinging open, and somebody come in ... an invisible somebody. Sirius got to his feet. Whoever was under the cloak stopped dead in their tracks.  
  
"Is that you, Harry?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Um, no," said whoever it was ... it was a female voice.  
  
"Hermione?"  
  
"Um, yes," said the invisible someone.  
  
"You shouldn't go wandering around the school past lights out," said Sirius. "It can be very dangerous these days. I think you should give the cloak to me."  
  
"It isn't really mine to give," said Hermione, pulling the cloak off. Her hair was a mess, and her face flushed, evidently through running.  
  
"Give it to me anyway," said Sirius.  
  
"Mr Wilmot, Harry will be furious with me ... he'd probably kill me if he even knew I took it."  
  
Sirius had completely forgotten he was still under his alias. "The cloak is Harry's?"  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"In that case, it is doubly important you give it to me," said Sirius, his paternal instinct stepping hurriedly in front of his other instincts, which were telling him that the whole thing was really rather funny.  
  
Hermione reluctantly handed over the Invisibility Cloak. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Fire away," said Sirius, folding up the cloak, and putting it on the arm of a nearby chair.  
  
"What are you doing in our Common Room?"  
  
"I ... well, that is a good question," said Sirius. "I ... I was a Gryffindor myself, a very long time ago. I wanted to come back and have a look around."  
  
Hermione nodded ... that made sense.  
  
"Can I ask you something, Hermione?" asked Sirius. "Why were you out late?"  
  
Hermione looked down at her feet. "Well," she said. "As I've been caught ... do you promise not to take points away or anything?"  
  
"From Gryffindor ... heaven forbid," said Sirius.  
  
"I was sneaking out to see my ... well, yes, I suppose he is my boyfriend," said Hermione, as she recalled the events of the evening.  
  
"Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Neither," admitted Hermione.  
  
"Ah, does that, I suppose it's not Harry, either, is it?"  
  
Hermione made a face. "Why does everyone seem to think I spend my entire life getting off with Harry?"  
  
"I'm sorry, but if he isn't a Ravenclaw, or a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, then that must mean..."  
  
Hermione was nodding. "Yes, he is," she said.  
  
Sirius suddenly understood. "Well, that would explain why Harry and Ron aren't talking to you."  
  
"How do you know about that?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I've just come from Dumbledore's office," said Sirius. "We've been talking about you three. He asked me to have a word with Harry about things in general."  
  
Hermione nodded. "Why you?" she asked. "Why not somebody who knows Harry ... you're just, well, no offence, but you're just a supply teacher, Mr Wilmot."  
  
"None taken," said Sirius. "Well, actually, plenty taken, but I'm good at hiding my emotions. Hermione ... I, well, this may be difficult for you to believe, but I know Harry better than you think. When I say I was in Gryffindor ... I was there at the same time as James and Lily Potter ... in fact, I was one of their greatest friends."  
  
Hermione was looking at him with the faintest outline of a smile playing across her lips. "I know," she said. "I think I know, anyway ..."  
  
"You know what?"  
  
"You can't fool me," said Hermione. "I thought I recognised you straight away. I'm surprised Harry didn't try and tell me."  
  
"I told him not to," said Sirius.  
  
"When he got himself in hospital ... that was because you told him who you were, right?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Yes, he fell off his chair," he said. "Um, does anybody apart from you and Harry know who I am."  
  
"I can't think of anybody," said Hermione. "Relax, Sirius, I certainly am not about to tell anybody."  
  
"I appreciate that," said Sirius. He picked up Harry's Invisibility Cloak. "Well ... I think we should probably think about heading our separate ways. I don't know about you wild young things, but us old grouches need our beauty sleep."  
  
Hermione nodded. "Um, well, goodnight."  
  
"Goodnight, Hermione," said Sirius. He unfolded the cloak again, and draped it over himself. Hermione smiled.  
  
"Long time since I did this," said Sirius. "Dare me to kick Mrs Norris?"  
  
**************  
  
At breakfast the next morning, Harry noticed that Sirius and Doctor Jones appeared to be passing photographs around the staff table, and that whatever the pictures were of, they were affording the teachers much merriment, and also that Hermione appeared much happier than she had done in several days. She kept smiling at him across the table, and even though they weren't speaking, he felt duty bound to return the smile.  
  
Ron was stuffing sausages into his mouth. He leant over to Harry. "Quidditch team list goes up today. Think you'll still be on it?"  
  
Harry smiled ... he was sure of it, indeed, he was more worried that Ron wouldn't make the team, as competition for places had been particularly strong. He was looking forward to finally getting to play properly with his friend. It had always felt kind of wrong to him, somehow, that he, brought up amongst Muggles and never having played much sport during childhood thanks to Dudley ... he, Harry, who had never even touched a broomstick before coming to Hogwarts, except when he had been forced to sweep the garden at Privet Drive, should have landed a plum position on the team within days of arriving, and that Ron, on the other hand, had had to wait four years.  
  
"Training starts tomorrow," said Ron. "Hope you're up for it."  
  
"You don't seem worried about not getting on the team," said Harry.  
  
"If I do, I do," said Ron. "If not, there's always next year. Anyway, there are only two places going, and nearly twenty of us went for them," Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson had both now left, and so one Chaser and a new Keeper were needed, as well as a Captain. Nobody was in any doubt that that was going to be Harry.  
  
"Next year you'll have a better chance," said Harry. "There'll be three places going," he looked up, and smiled as Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet came to sit down with them.  
  
"Lists are up," said Katie, scooping enough hash browns to feed an army onto her plate. Alicia was helping herself to tea. "Guess who's the Seeker?"  
  
"Couldn't possibly," said Harry.  
  
"Well done, now guess who's Captain," Katie went on.  
  
Harry shrugged.  
  
"You, you bloody great oaf," said Katie. "I was up for that ... you'll have to watch I don't try and overthrow you."  
  
"And," said Alicia. "Ron ... you made it too You're a Chaser ... and some fourth year is the new Keeper. You know Colin Creevey?"  
  
Harry hit his head on the table. The last thing he needed was to have Colin on the team ... they would never get any work done. Resignedly, Harry began to cut up his bacon. Ron was veritably glowing with pride. Alicia leant over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  
  
"Always knew you had it in you, darling" she said, provoking a dark look from George, who was sitting next to them. "Oh, and guess who's Captaining Slytherin this season?"  
  
Ron's face fell. "You're kidding!"  
  
"Nope, Draco Malfoy," said Alicia, sighing. "I know ... I couldn't believe it either, but hey, he's, like, totally thick, so they should be a walkover."  
  
Their first Quidditch game of the season was scheduled for a couple of weeks time, and it was against Slytherin. Harry had already pencilled it into his diary.  
  
"I hope you have some nice new tactics up your sleeve," Katie was saying. Harry looked up in alarm.  
  
"Tactics?"  
  
"You know, you have to live up to Oliver," said Katie. "It wouldn't be the same if we didn't get the twenty page flipchart before every training session now, would it, Harry?"  
  
In the excitement, Harry had completely forgotten that his new responsibilities would include tactics and motivation. His heart sank.  
  
"You do have a flipchart, don't you Harry?" badgered Alicia.  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Ooh, I dunno, we might have to have a word with McGonagall about that," Katie went on. "There is a proud Gryffindor tradition to carry on with ... that of the Captain being a boring sod."  
  
"Perhaps we can get one for you," said Alicia. "Take it as an early Christmas present."  
  
"We could get Colin to raid the Harry Potter Fan Club's petty cash box," said Ron. "The subscriptions alone could buy us all Mark 2 Firebolts."  
  
Harry, meanwhile, had noticed that Sirius was laughing uproariously at one of the photos, and he and Professor Flitwick kept casting conspiratorial glances in his direction. It was making him distinctly uneasy. He began to eat his breakfast.  
  
**************  
  
Friday passed quietly enough. Hermione seemed to be much more pleasantly disposed towards him, and even came back to sit with them at lunch, smiling politely at their jokes. Harry wondered if she was buttering him up in the hope of a favour. Sirius kept looking at him oddly during Care of Magical Creatures, and then told him to stay behind for a little chat ... which sounded decidedly ominous. He stopped behind afterwards as he had been asked, and watched as the rest of the class filed out. Hermione disappeared somewhere with Draco in tow, but Harry was too worried about what Sirius wanted him for to be bothered about what she was doing.  
  
"If you'd like to sit down, Harry," hinted Sirius. He had borrowed Professor McGonagall's office, which Harry had visited before, usually in unhappy circumstances. It was a well appointed room, with fine carpets, adornments and old photographs hanging from the walls, and a view of the main courtyard, across which groups of students were hurrying in a bid to escape the cold and wet weather that was once again plaguing them.  
  
"Have I done anything wrong?" Harry asked, sitting down before the desk.  
  
"Quite the contrary," said Sirius. "Dumbledore wanted me to have this little chat with you about ... well, you know, things."  
  
"What things?"  
  
"Dumbledore is concerned that you and Ron don't seem to be talking to Hermione. He thinks it might have something to do with ...um," Sirius stumbled. "He thinks it might have something to do with ... well, how shall I put this? With affairs of the heart."  
  
"He thinks I'm lovesick over Hermione? I'm not," lied Harry.  
  
Sirius nodded. "He mentioned the other thing too," he said.  
  
"Sirius, stop speaking in riddles," said Harry.  
  
Sirius scowled. "Give me a chance kid. This is hard for me too. I was never cut out for this Fathering lark. Give me the life of a bachelor any day. He thinks it might be because you're confused."  
  
"I'm confused because you aren't telling me what you're on about," said Harry.  
  
"Confused about things that are happening within you," said Sirius. "You know, there comes a time in every young man's life when ... well, when this sort of thing, comes out, and it can be, awkward. Well, very awkward and generally confusing."  
  
Harry shook his head. "I'm still not with you," he said.  
  
"Well," said Sirius, crossing and uncrossing his legs. "I think, that is to say, that, things happening within, um, within yourself are, happening. Yes. This is confusing, I think, probably for you too, that these things are unexpected for you, and you don't know what to do about them."  
  
"Me Harry Potter, me speak English."  
  
"What I mean to say is, this has something to do with the unexpected changes that are occurring."  
  
"Do you mean puberty?" asked Harry, latching onto a concept. He noticed Sirius had gone pink.  
  
"Well," he said, taking his time and enunciating every syllable. "That is to say, unexpected changes within things, at this time of life ... and to put it quite bluntly. Yes."  
  
"Dumbledore thinks I'm confused because I'm about to get pimples and sprout hair everywhere," said Harry.  
  
"In a manner of speaking," said Sirius.  
  
"I know what to do about them," said Harry. "I'm not stupid. Why does Dumbledore want you to give me sex education sessions, albeit very abstract ones?"  
  
Sirius was now so pink you could have fried an egg on his face. "That is, probably, because of the changes," he said, meekly.  
  
"If there was a prize for beating about the bush, you'd get it, hands down," said Harry. "Is this going to take long? I have to sort out tactics. The guys are getting me a flipchart."  
  
"Dumbledore thinks you might not, be talking to Hermione because of this."  
  
"Because I have a couple of spots on my chin?"  
  
"Well," said Sirius. "That and other things."  
  
"He thinks me and Hermione are ... um ..."  
  
"Um," said Sirius.  
  
"Ah," said Harry, understanding. "Well, you can tell him from me that my sex life is still ... abortive to say the least. Why exactly does he think I'm not talking to her because I'm in love with her, which is not to say I am?" even though he was.  
  
"Could you tell me then, why exactly Hermione isn't ... um, doesn't appear to be your friend anymore?"  
  
"We don't hate each other," said Harry. "It's just, she seems to like Malfoy all of a sudden, she was going on about him earlier in the week, and I'm convinced they keep disappearing off together."  
  
"That is as I feared," said Sirius.  
  
"Then why go through all the birds and the bees rubbish if you already knew what I was going to say?" asked Harry.  
  
"I ... um," it was dawning on Sirius that this was an incredibly good point. "I think you'll have to ask Dumbledore that particular question."  
  
**************  
  
Harry had spent most of the night sitting up in bed, with the hangings drawn around him, worrying about Quidditch. He had kind of expected, all along, that he would wind up being the Captain, but somehow, he had always hoped and prayed that they would choose somebody else. However, he had once again been thrust forward into the limelight... as seemed to be happening to him increasingly often. It was, frankly, causing him increasing annoyance. He did want to be Captain ... but he didn't. It was very confusing.  
  
To top it all, he had no idea exactly how he should go about doing it. To copy Wood and spend ages before every single match or training session poring over flipcharts and diagrams of fancy movements, and earn their contempt, or at the very least, to bore them to tears. Or to play it by ear ... to just let them do as they wanted. Surely that choice could never produce any kind of results. It was a dilemma, and one Harry did not want to have to face. Nevertheless, their first training session was coming up, and he knew he would have to do something. He wished he could have had Wood there with him, to give him help, guidance, and steer him in the right direction. But he didn't, instead he had a self help manual called 'Coaching Quidditch Successfully - How To Go About Achieving The Bloody Impossible.' It did not bode well. He fell asleep fretting, and once again, his dreams were not pleasant ones.  
  
Harry had decided to book the Quidditch pitch for training early on Saturday morning, before breakfast, so that they would not have to worry about spectators putting them off. However, as he headed down to the changing rooms in the early morning sunlight, his heart sank to see that most of the rest of the House had beaten him to it. There were about fifty Gryffindors packed in a tight knit little group at the front of the South Stand.  
  
The others were all already changed and waiting for him by the time he got there. Harry hurriedly pulled on his Quidditch robes, and then went to join them. Fred, George and Ron were looking at him expectantly, but he had no idea what to say to them.  
  
"What do you want to work on then, Harry?" asked Katie.  
  
Harry shrugged. "I really don't know," he said. "What do you guys want to do?"  
  
"Harry, Captain's call," reminded Alicia. Fred and George were nodding keenly. "We are but your minions ... here to flatter your desires, though not all of them, obviously."  
  
"Should we just fly around a bit and get used to being back on brooms?" asked Harry.  
  
"Yeah, but what do you want us to do when we're up there?" asked Fred.  
  
"Well, what did Wood always do?"  
  
"Bore us to tears," said George. "How about we try some passing ... release a couple of bludgers, and we'll try and work our way down the pitch, as if we're playing a match, but without any opposition."  
  
"And as we're not playing anybody, it'll be a walkover," said Fred.  
  
"We could try that," said Harry. "Let's try that then. Colin, you're in goal. Stop as many of our shots as you can."  
  
Colin grinned at the mention of his name. He was wearing a very thick pair of goalkeeping gloves which looked more suited to soccer than Quidditch, though as nobody had yet commented, he hadn't bothered to take them off.  
  
"Sounds good," said Alicia. "So, Harry, do you have any balls?"  
  
"Ah," said Harry.  
  
**************  
  
It took about ten minutes to track down a full set of Quidditch balls, during which time the entirety of Gryffindor House had shown up, as well as some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. As they walked out onto the pitch, the noise was almost as loud as a real game. Harry very nearly turned and went back inside. He caught sight of Sirius sitting in the stands, waving to him ... for some reason Doctor Jones was with him.  
  
Though Harry had flown a couple of times since the start of term, it still felt brilliant to be back in the air again. It was only now that he could play again that he realised how much he had missed the game during the previous year. He soared around high above the pitch, basking in the faint heat from the Autumn sun, keeping his eyes open for the little flash of gold that indicated the presence of the elusive Snitch, and watching the other players shooting about below him. Fred and George were taking it in turns with the Bludgers, one shooting them at the other players, and the other trying to defend them, whilst the three Chasers, Katie, Alicia and Ron moved up the pitch, passing the Quaffle between them. Colin Creevey was flying around in one of the goalmouths, not doing much, but evidently having great fun.  
  
The morning breeze was refreshing at such a height, and up here, the shouts from the crowd sounded like the shouts of a crowd on television ... so isolated and far away that it didn't really matter.  
  
Harry gave a start ... for a moment, he thought he had seen the Snitch, but it turned out to be the rising sun glinting off one of the floodlights. He swerved to avoid a speeding Bludger, which missed him by inches, and turned rapidly for another go. Harry, without pause for thought, dived towards the ground so steeply he was almost vertical. He could feel the wind whipping at his hair as the pitch got closer and closer. Two hundred feet, a hundred feet, now seventy five, now fifty, forty. He pulled out of the dive, felt a rush of exhilaration surge through his veins as his toes skimmed the newly mown grass, and he heard a sharp crack as George deflected the Bludger away from him. Down here, he was once again in the thick of things ... he could hear and feel the raw energy radiating from the crowd. He turned sharply as he reached the goal, and scanned the pitch again. Ron had just taken a tricky pass from Katie, and had already knocked the Quaffle up field towards Colin, who moved rapidly to block it. Harry watched as Colin missed the ball, which flew straight through one of the goal hoops, and narrowly avoided Fred, whom he hadn't noticed flying around nearby, protecting him from Bludgers.  
  
Harry signalled for time out, and they all flew back to the centre of the pitch, and landed softly on the ground.  
  
"Something up?" asked George.  
  
Harry shook his head. "How are we all feeling?" he asked. "Is it going okay?"  
  
"You tell us," said Katie. "You're the man, Harry."  
  
Harry scratched his head. "Colin," he said. "Try and move quickly. You've got the hang of that pirouette, but Quidditch isn't ballet, and if you try and pull off fancy moves like that, you'll start conceding points. Try just moving in front of the Quaffle, and don't worry about Bludgers. Try that for me."  
  
"Okay, Harry," said Colin, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
Harry thought he saw Hermione in the crowd, and turned to see. Sure enough, she was sitting in the front row, waving to them.  
  
"Above all, don't let anybody distract you," said Harry. "Play your game ... blank the crowd if you have to. Ron, I don't know how you felt about that, but you looked as though you were worrying about Bludgers ... you kept changing tack for no reason. Fly straight. George, watch out for Ron, give him no cause to be scared. Fred, just fly."  
  
Katie and Alicia were smiling. "You see," said Alicia. "Being Captain isn't so hard! You're doing I,t Harry!"  
  
Harry grinned. He hadn't realised. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I suppose I am," his confidence boosted, he kicked off from the ground again, and soared off into the sky whilst the rest of the team scattered to their various positions.  
  
Again, high up above the pitch, it felt like another world. He stayed slightly lower this time, to keep an eye on how the others were flying. He was pleased to see that his advice seemed to be being taken to heart, especially by Colin Creevey, whom Harry suspected was very anxious to please.  
  
A flash of something gold ... right by his ear. He turned sharply, and sure enough, the Snitch was hanging in the air right in front of him. Surely it wasn't going to be that easy. Harry reached out, but the Snitch shot away towards the ground. Harry kicked his broomstick into gear, and dived in pursuit. Now the sheer power of his world class Firebolt really came into play, and he was glad Sirius was able to be there and see his Christmas present in action. Trying not to think about the crowd, as he himself had said, he stretched out his hand, and felt the fluttering of the Snitch's tiny wings against his palm as he closed his fingers tight around it, keeping his left hand always on the broom to stabilise it. The crowd, evidently realising what was happening, whooped and cheered as he slewed the Firebolt to a halt at the far end of the pitch.  
  
"Nice one," he said to himself.  
  
**************  
  
Hermione came running up to him as they trooped off the pitch, looking hopeful about something.  
  
"Have you got drinks?" she asked. "It looked thirsty work. I ... I, uh, could get some. If you'd like."  
  
"We brought water," said Harry, fishing in his kitbag, and withdrawing a large plastic bottle which he had filled from one of the taps in the boys' bathroom before coming out. He handed it over to Ron.  
  
"Thanks," said Ron, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig.  
  
"So ... what brought this on?" asked Harry. Ron gave him back the bottle, and he clasped it tightly.  
  
"Yeah, why isn't Draco with you?" asked Ron.  
  
"Draco? Why on Earth would Draco want to come and see you practice Quidditch?" scoffed Hermione. "Now me on the other hand ... I like nothing better than to come down and see my two favourite boys flying their hearts out."  
  
If this struck Harry as at all odd, considering her attitude towards them over the past few days, he was clearly doing his best not to allow Hermione to see it. He unscrewed the cap from his bottle, and drank.  
  
"Do we ... um, take it the Malfoy thing is over then?" asked Ron, shouldering his broomstick as they started to walk back towards the changing rooms.  
  
"As good as," said Hermione, though secretly, she was thinking ... not on your life.  
  
"That's a relief," said Ron. "I was beginning to think you were out looking for a personal relationship with him."  
  
Hermione laughed along with them. "Look," she said. "I'll see you guys later ... I'm going to run up to the Castle, grab a spot of breakfast and get ready for Potions. You run along and do whatever it is guys do in changing rooms."  
  
Harry and Ron didn't exchange conspiratorial winks. Hermione waved a farewell to them, and carried on back up the path towards the Castle. Harry drained the bottle.  
  
"Coming?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry was about to follow him into the changing rooms, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned round to find himself looking into Sirius' eyes.  
  
"Good flying this morning, Harry," he said. "I kind of wish I'd been up there with you."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry. "Can I ask you something?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "Whatever you like," he said.  
  
"Why is Doctor Jones hanging around you so much?" Harry asked.  
  
Sirius looked around furtively to check that Doctor Jones wasn't within earshot ... she was walking along in the middle distance, heading back up towards the Castle.  
  
"You don't remember Gwyneth do you?" asked Sirius.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Should I do?" he asked.  
  
Sirius nodded. "Well, maybe not directly," he said. "Your Mother would be very disappointed to learn you weren't getting on."  
  
"She knew Mum?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "They were good friends. Gwyneth was a year above us at Hogwarts, and she was always kind of a mentor to your Mother ... whenever us four got too much for her, as happened more often than you'd think, she'd slope off to have a girly chat with Gwyneth. She remembers you very well ... she was quite often round your house when you were a baby. She was there when you were born too."  
  
"How's that?" asked Harry.  
  
"Your parents were living in a flat in Diagon Alley at the time," said Sirius. "Gwyneth and I were there when your Mum went into labour. Your Dad, well, he was drinking himself silly in the pub. I believe it's called wetting the baby's head ... anyway he was practicing for it. Your Mum and Gwyneth chucked me out, and sent me down to the pub, and then Gwyneth, she helped her through it ... your Mum told me afterwards there were moments when she was screaming about wanting to kill James, and Gwyneth comforted her, and she weighed you, and cleaned you up afterwards. She suggested your name too."  
  
"Why, what were they going to call me?"  
  
"If you'd been a girl, I believe it would have been Rosemary," said Sirius. "Your Mum wanted to call you Septimus, because you were born in the seventh month, so count yourself lucky ... if you had been born a day later, you might have been called Octopus Potter. As for your Father ... well, he liked the sound of Ringo," Sirius shuddered ... there had been quite a fight over that one. He looked down at Harry, who was somehow looking even more childlike than he usually did.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
"It ... it just has this effect on me," said Harry, who was starting to feel slightly woozy ... he couldn't be getting tipsy off pumpkin juice could he?  
  
"If you don't want me to carry on," said Sirius.  
  
Harry looked up. "Actually, I do," he said. "It helps, you know?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "I think I can understand why," he said. "Well, she was your Mum's greatest friend, and she was my girlfriend, for a very long time. We were about to get married too. You would have been about fourteen months old when we split up."  
  
Harry was looking at his shoes. "I feel I ought to apologise," he said.  
  
"Whatever for?" asked Sirius. "It wasn't your fault ... actually, it was hers. Look, Harry ... if you don't hurry, you'll miss breakfast, and you'll give her an excuse to shout at you. If you want to talk ... you know where I am. And, just try getting along with her, for me? I know she's a Slytherin now ... but she used to be a Gryffindor."  
  
He turned, and began to walk back down the hill towards the Quidditch pitch.   
  
A/N  
  
Octopus Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Hmm, doesn't quite have the right ring to it does it? Well ... a great big thank you to my merry band of reviewers. You are all, without exception ... wonderful.  



	7. The Lost Boys

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
Whew ... if you're reading this, it means FFN is back, FINALLY, and everything is happy and rosy once more. Harry Potter still belongs to JKR, who is still God. I am still not making any money out of this. The PG-13 rating is once more justified. Some of the views expressed herein may appear to be racist or even Nazi in character. Please remember that they are not my views, but the views of the fictional characters contained within the story. There is no excuse for racism under any circumstances, ever, it is a deplorable act. In the meanwhile, thank you so much for reviewing me if you did before ... without much further ado, on with our tale ...  
  
PART SEVEN. THE LOST BOYS.  
  
He was in some sort of room ... circular, with high, rough hewn stone walls stretching upwards to a ceiling so distant it was invisible. Looking around, there was a single candle, almost completely gutted, burning feebly in a brazier attached to the wall. The floor was patterned with alternating dark and pale stones, swirling around him in a spiral pattern. There was also a single door, heavy looking, thick, knotted, ancient oak, with a single iron handle. It was bitterly cold, and Draco hugged his arms to his body in an attempt to eke some warmth back into his frozen bones.  
  
Draco looked around, wondering what on Earth could have brought him to this bizarre, and frankly frightening place. He walked slowly over to the door, and tried the handle ... but it seemed to be locked ... either that or shut fast.  
  
Then a voice spoke. It appeared to have no source ... there was no other visible person in the room. At least, Draco could not see them if they were there. Nevertheless a voice spoke to him. It said, "You're not happy Draco."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I can tell you're not happy. I can tell there is something bothering you."  
  
Draco looked around again, "Is that you Father?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking, yes. Does that bother you at all?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"I know the answer is yes Draco. I can be whoever I want to be. Look."  
  
"You're me?"  
  
"Yes ... handsome sod aren't I?"  
  
"Rather! So, um, what do you want from me?"  
  
"Nothing ... I'm not really here ... I'm inside of you."  
  
"In my head?" asked Draco.  
  
"Bingo!"  
  
"My brain?"  
  
"Ah, in a biological sense, yes. But not in any others ... if you cut your head open, you wouldn't find me there."  
  
"I'd rather not try."  
  
"That's good, I wouldn't recommend it."  
  
"How come you never spoke to me before?"  
  
"I am insulted Draco. I am always speaking to you. I am your thoughts made flesh."  
  
"How is that possible?"  
  
"Dreams, hallucinations. Really, I am here to give you guidance."  
  
"Is this a dream now? You're here to help me?"  
  
"More a hallucination actually. A dream sounds ... too fluffy for your liking. There should really be clouds made of candy floss and little pink flying ponies. How do you like it in your subconscious Draco? It is a bit bare isn't it. We really need to get some carpet down on this floor ... possibly some nice hangings. But yes, that is why I am here "  
  
"So help me?"  
  
"Often Draco, the information you seek is already known to you. It merely takes another person to confirm what you had suspected all along. Your brain is conscious of more than you usually are. It is a very complex machine, and the demands the average human makes upon it are ... ah, insufficient. Therefore it is constantly monitoring ... taking in everything, overhearing other people's conversations even if you yourself do not. This is one of those moments."  
  
"So I already know all of whatever it is you're here to tell me?"  
  
"Yes, I can confirm your suspicions for you ... I cannot however tell you anything you don't already know."  
  
"So do I really love Hermione?"  
  
"Your feelings are genuine. You believe she is kind and considerate, warm, friendly, and she stood by you when nobody else would. You value such qualities and you are a man of discerning taste. You know you have chosen well."  
  
"That's a relief. What about my Father? Do I really hate him?"  
  
"You believe you do. But you are still his son, and there are more powerful bonds connecting you than mere hate can transcend."  
  
"That's bad, right?"  
  
"Depends on how you look at it. It could be bad if events go one way, and it could be good if they go the other."  
  
"Which way do I want them to go?"  
  
"Your heart says you want them to go the first way."  
  
"That's bad?"  
  
"Again, it depends ... you are ruled by your heart and you always have been. You suspect it is this path that you will take. Both will have benefits for you, both will have pitfalls."  
  
"What about this moral dilemma thingie?"  
  
"I cannot offer solutions Draco. Besides, it is a moral dilemma ... what kind of a dilemma is it that one's own conscience can solve at the drop of a hat? I do not know the answer to that, because you do not know it either."  
  
"So the one thing I want to know ... you can't tell me. That's bloody useless!"  
  
"I know ... bit of a bugger really. One of those paradoxes, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway ... you're about to wake up ... I'd better skedaddle."  
  
Draco opened his eyes, and looked once more upon the bizarre room. So this was his subconscious mind? Spooky. He walked slowly over to one of the walls, and prodded it with his finger. To his surprise, he went straight through what appeared to be solid stone. He withdrew his finger ... it appeared to be unharmed. He stuck his arm through ... this time something grabbed it ... something solid, another arm was tugging him, tugging so strongly ... there was no way he could fight it ... and then he felt himself being pulled through the very fabric of the wall, and then nothing, save for the eerie sensation of falling. But falling to where? How far away was the ground? Draco spread his arms out wide, and next thing he knew, he could feel the soft bulk of his mattress underneath him.  
  
He gasped, and gripped the edges of the bed with both hands, as though scared of something more happening. He looked up at the ceiling ... but all that was there was the green velvet of his four poster. He could hear Crabbe's snores, and the sound of a fierce wind outside. He sighed with relief.  
  
**************  
  
'Nobody does it better,  
Makes me feel sad for the rest,  
Nobody does it, half as good as you,  
Baby you're the best.  
  
I wasn't looking,  
But somehow you found me,  
I tried to hide from your loving,  
But like Heaven above me,  
The spy who loved me,  
Is keeping all my secrets safe tonight.'  
  
Hermione lay on her bed, letting those well-remembered lines run over and over in her head ...  
  
'And nobody does it better,  
Though sometimes I wish someone would,  
Nobody does it, quite the way you do,  
Why d'you have to be so good?  
  
The way that you hold me,  
Whenever you hold me,  
There's some kind of magic inside you,  
That keeps me from running,  
But just keep it coming,  
How d'you learn to do the things you do?  
  
And nobody does it better,  
Makes me feel sad for the rest,  
Nobody does it, half as good as you,  
Baby, baby, darling, you're the best,  
Baby you're the best,  
Baby you're the best.'  
  
Hermione smiled at the aptness of the words. It had been the first song that had popped into her head when she woke up on Sunday morning, and for several minutes, she just lay there. She couldn't even remember where she remembered hearing it before ... just some trashy pop song after all. Still, apt, nevertheless.  
  
She ran the events of the previous day over and over in her head, like she was reviewing a videotape. Draco had looked so pleased when she told him that she had done it ... that she had made her peace with Harry and Ron. She was getting her friends back, and nothing on Earth could have made her much happier than that. Except for one thing. He had invaded her dreams again that night, smiling through the fog of sleep. He made her dreams a pleasure, to be looked forward to, to be revelled in ... and then, cruelly, as was so often the way with lovely things, to fade from her memory the second she opened her eyes ... like a child's etch-a-sketch.  
  
She hoped he was dreaming about her.  
  
**************  
  
Ron came down to breakfast that morning, looking rather flustered and slightly distressed, if distressed was the right word for it. He took a seat next to Harry and opposite Hermione, and instead of helping himself to his usual fry up, poured a meagre bowl of Cornflakes, and drenched them in milk. Harry, who was halfway through his boiled egg, watched him do it.  
  
"Is something the matter?" asked Hermione.  
  
Ron shrugged. "It isn't the kind of thing you really want to share," he said. "I had a nightmare last night."  
  
"So did I," said Harry, and he was just about to tell Ron and Hermione what it had been about, when he remembered what it had been about ... who had been in it, and exactly what they had been doing. The dream had started to recur, which he gathered from reading up on dreams for Divination classes, was a very bad sign indeed.  
  
"What was it about?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I was in a room," said Ron. "A really nice one, you know, all leather furniture and posh carpets and stuff like that, and I could hear people, and so I went in, and there was this bed in the room ... there were people in the bed."  
  
Hermione nodded, gravely, noticing as she did so that Harry appeared to have gone as white as a sheet.  
  
"I'd rather not go on," said Ron. He started spooning the Cornflakes into his mouth.  
  
Thoughts were running through Harry's mind nineteen to the dozen ... and they were scaring him. How could Ron have possibly had the same dream as he had? It wasn't possible ... it could never happen ... not in a million years. Perhaps he should ask Professor Trelawney what she thought it meant.  
  
His train of thought derailed itself and went plunging down an embankment, killing two people, as the morning post arrived. Hundreds of owls, all shapes and sizes were swooping into the Hall. Harry kept his eyes open for any sign of Hedwig, whom he had sent off with a letter to Hagrid a few days ago, but she did not come. Pig was there however, balancing happily on the rim of Ron's cereal bowl, and dancing a little jig. Ron unfolded the little note that was strapped to his leg, and read it.  
  
"Anything interesting?" asked Hermione, craning to get a better view. Ron hastily hid the letter, but not before Hermione and Harry had noticed that it was written in day glow pen, and decorated.  
  
"Just an ... old friend," said Ron. "We like to keep in touch."  
  
"This old friend, decorates his letters with little purple hearts does he?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron blushed furiously. "It's a she, if you must know," he said. "I have a pen friend, in France."  
  
"In France ... ooh la la," said Hermione. "How is France these days?"  
  
"Very well, considering," said Ron, who had tucked the letter in the breast pocket of his shirt.  
  
"Have you ever met this pen friend?" asked Harry.  
  
Ron shook his head. "It was some sort of International Fellowship Programme my Mum made me join when Dad was still working with the European Magical Affairs Department. I was about nine. But anyway, I ended up with Marie ... and we still write every now and again."  
  
"Is she a witch?" asked Harry.  
  
"Actually, she's a dryad," said Ron. "The descendant of tree spirits ... but she goes to Beauxbatons. Look, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody ... especially not Fred and George. I'd probably die if they found out."  
  
"My lips are sealed," said Hermione, she glared at Harry, who nodded his agreement.  
  
*************  
  
The room was in semi-darkness ... the only light cast by a small reading light ... all else was shadow. The room's sole occupant was a man, head bowed, deeply engrossed in writing in a very thick ledger. The only sounds were those of the rain outside, and the ticking of an antique carriage clock, standing upon the mantelpiece.  
  
Painfully slowly, the man turned over a page in the ledger, dipped his quill in the inkpot, and continued to write.  
  
His reverie was disturbed by a sharp tap on the door. Slowly, he looked up.  
  
"Come."  
  
The door opened, and a second man stepped into the room. In the light from outside, it was easier to make out his features ... a pointed, rat like face atop a squat body, mousy hair, and an ugly turned up nose. This man would not have won any beauty contests.  
  
"What is it?" asked the first man, clearly annoyed by the unwarranted intrusion.  
  
"There is a Gentleman in the hall downstairs who insists upon seeing you Master," said the first man. "He claims his name is Lucius Malfoy."  
  
"Malfoy. Whatever could he want?" asked the first man, laying down his quill on the desk in front of him. "Do send him up."  
  
"Immediately Master. Oh ... and Boris and Sacha are newly returned from the plantations ... shall I deposit the money in the safe?"  
  
"How much is there?" asked the first man, his voice unnaturally high.  
  
"It has not been counted Master," said the second man. "Boris estimates the barons have supplied him with something in the region of five point two million dollars."  
  
"Count it ... then put it in the safe. But first, show Malfoy up here."  
  
"Yes Master," the second man slipped from the room.  
  
A couple of minutes passed slowly by. Then came another knock, and the door creaked slowly open.  
  
"Malfoy?"  
  
"I am here Master," said Lucius Malfoy, stepping into the room, he wore a very long, very fine pure silk cloak, kid gloves and high dragon hide boots. In his hand he carried his customary riding crop. "I trust all is well?"  
  
The first man nodded. "Business is booming," he said. "The money is rolling in from the plantations, from the diamond consortium, and from the Russians ... who still desire to keep the Ossetians sweet ... clearly fear of my name is growing in Moscow. But tell me, what news of our world?"  
  
Lucius Malfoy sat down at his behest, coughed, and began to speak. "The leaks to the Daily Prophet are working wonders," he said. "Wizards and witches all over Britain are turning in droves ... they believe Dumbledore is mad, deluded, and as for the Potter boy. Rumour has it he is dangerous and deranged. Soon he will have no friends remaining ... and then he shall be ripe for the picking."  
  
"How goes your courting of Chaldean?"  
  
"Chaldean still believes he is on side," said Malfoy. "He flies to Naxcivan tonight to take care of our operations in the field. It will be ready within a week."  
  
"It is better he is out of the way," said the first man. "Soon he will deliver the boy to us. What about the Americans?"  
  
"They are ... not a problem," said Malfoy. "I have spoken with our friends in New York ... they say the matter is well under control. The deal will go through as per our agreement. Zabini has already drawn up the plans."  
  
"Everything West of the Mississippi?"  
  
Malfoy nodded.  
  
"As I commanded. You are doing well Malfoy ... I shall not kill you today."  
  
Malfoy let out a falsetto laugh. "Master will have his little joke," he said.  
  
"I wasn't joking."  
  
Malfoy stopped in mid laugh. The other man rose to his feet, and took to pacing the room. "Four years ago I was returned to power ... four months ago I was once again given flesh ... a body to stand up in, and since then what I want I have taken. Nobody has been able to stand in my way ... oil, diamonds, drugs ... I now control it. The next step is nations ... our nation Malfoy ... our nation must be united under the same banner. The notion of wizards remaining subservient, constituent parts of Muggle states is no longer valid. Britain, America, France, China ... all are outmoded concepts," he turned to Malfoy. "I cannot do that if I am not absolutely convinced of your complete loyalty. If I even sense doubt within you I will have you destroyed, and I will have your family destroyed as well."  
  
"I appreciate Master, that all of our kind must march under your name."  
  
"For the greater good," said the man, grimacing at Malfoy.  
  
"For the greater good."  
  
"If I even suspected you were being disloyal to me."  
  
"Not at all Master."  
  
"I don't trust double agents ... I never have done. They have a tendency to want more than they can afford to take ... to try and get their fingers in every metaphorical pie. Watch your step Lucius Malfoy. Word has already reached my ear of the activities of your son."  
  
Malfoy paled visibly. "You leave Draco out of this. He's still a boy."  
  
"You were willing to bring me Potter, were you not? Draco, it appears, has been dilly dallying, he has shunned his true work and taken up with a Mudblood, no less."  
  
"This was news to me."  
  
"You forget I have eyes and ears inside Hogwarts ... they reveal all to me," said the man.  
  
"I shall speak with him as soon as I can," said Malfoy.  
  
"He must be punished."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Severely."  
  
"Master, nobody appreciates more than I the com..."  
  
"You do remember the teachings of our forefathers. The writings of Frazier and Beauchamp? The bloodlines must remain unsullied. Only those who show purity of race may be allowed to exist under the New Order. Half bloods, those who marry Muggles, must be destroyed. Squibs must be destroyed. The old families, the old races will be the ones who will rule when I am triumphant. All else shall be as nothing, for mighty shall be my vengeance on those who seek to pollute the Wizard Race. Malfoy ... your son is in danger of flouting the very basic rules of our ideology. If he so much as touches that Mudblood, he will have polluted himself, and deemed himself unworthy to be representative of our race. If I asked you, would you kill him?"  
  
"Master, I cannot tell..."  
  
"If I asked you ... would you kill your son? Would you kill Draco?"  
  
Malfoy looked at the floor ... clearly the question was affording him much agony. After a deathly pause, he replied. "Yes ... I would."  
  
"Malfoy ... I suggest you correct this discrepancy post haste," he went on. "Otherwise you too might find yourself in danger of decapitation. Go now."  
  
"You are benevolent beyond necessity Master," said Malfoy, bowing so low that his nose almost touched the floor. "I return to London tonight."  
  
"We know," said the man. "Now go ... that all might hear the name of Voldemort."  
  
**************  
  
"Harry ... can I have a word?" it was Sunday afternoon ... about two p.m. and as soon as lunch was finished, Harry had taken his books and quills and disappeared to the Library to try and finish his homework. He had trusted that nobody would disturb him ... though this was clearly not to be the case.  
  
"Can it wait ... this is a very important essay?"  
  
Hermione sat down on the desk, which creaked and wobbled alarmingly, sending Harry's newly sharpened pencil to the floor. "It can't really," she said.  
  
Harry set down his quill, and looked up at her. "What's it about?" he asked.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Harry turned away in annoyance. "I thought you said you put all that behind you," he said, a tone of anger creeping into his voice. "He was down, you helped him out ... wham, bam, end of story."  
  
"Harry ... it isn't like that," said Hermione, Harry noticed for the first time that she was wringing her hands.  
  
"How is it?" asked Harry.  
  
"You remember when I ... when you came up to me in the Library."  
  
"I'd sooner forget," said Harry, icily. "But do go on."  
  
"I helped you out too ... and though I told you things you didn't want to hear. But now I need some help. Draco's, well, he's put me in a very odd situation ... I guess you could call it a moral dilemma."  
  
"Bully for Draco," said Harry. "Exactly what does this have to do with me?"  
  
Hermione wanted to say. 'Harry, it has everything to do with you,' and just spill the entire can of beans, there and then. However something was telling her that, given the rather exceptional and unusual circumstances, this was a bad idea. "I was just, thinking you might be able to help," she said.  
  
"Shoot ... I'm no counsellor, but I'm listening," said Harry.  
  
"Well, Draco and me ... Draco and I. I think we're, well, we're beyond the friends stage."  
  
Harry stared at her in surprise. "Well, talk about going in off the rebound," he said. "Don't you think you're moving too fast?"  
  
Hermione gave him a withering look. "I won't tell you if you're just going to be nasty."  
  
Harry shook his head. "I'll shut up ... I'll be good," he said.  
  
"Thank you. We, well, we went through quite a lot together, you understand. I know I love him, and I'm fairly sure I feel the same way ... I just don't know whether I'm doing the right thing by loving him."  
  
Harry gave her a sincere look. "I think," he said. "That you should do what you want. I'm not giving you my blessing ... there's no way I could do that ... but, well, I think you've made your decision, and I don't think you can back away from that. It won't make you any more popular Hermione. You do understand that?"  
  
Hermione nodded. Tears of joy were welling up in her eyes. She flung her arms around Harry, and hugged him.  
  
"Hey now, that's just a bit too fast for me," said Harry in a muffled and surprised voice.  
  
"Don't be silly," said Hermione. "Harry ... God, I feel so guilty now. You really know how to make a girl feel guilty don't you."  
  
"I wouldn't know, I've never tried to," said Harry.  
  
"There's one other thing," Hermione went on, releasing Harry.  
  
"What might that be?"  
  
"I'd ... I'd really like for us to stay friends," said Hermione. "I'm sure you must realise that it can never be like how it was before. It can't ever be like not, not like, not like how it was on the train, at the start of term, before ... well, before I got in with Draco. But, I'd like it if you could try and accept him."  
  
Harry looked up at her, clearly somewhat surprised. "I think that might be a bit of a tall order," he said.  
  
"Harry ... please, it would mean so much to me, and you already told me that you think I should do what I want," began Hermione.  
  
"But I just don't like him," said Harry. "I'm sorry, but I completely fail to see how I am supposed to change that attitude overnight."  
  
"Friendship takes time Harry," said Hermione. She leant closer to him, the light pouring in through the high Library windows giving her sleek hair a brilliant sheen, her face partially in shadow. She continued to speak. "Look at you and Ron, you've had your tiffs ... and blimey you haven't half had some big ones. But there's nobody on Earth who wouldn't say that it's a thing that has to be worked on. But I'd like you to try, and at least not ... not be so nasty to him."  
  
"Everyone is saying stop being nasty to Draco," said Harry, glowering slightly. "Nobody is actually bothering to tell me why."  
  
Hermione glanced around conspiratorially, and then lowered her voice to a harsh stage whisper, almost as though she wanted passers by to overhear. "I'm not entirely sure I should be telling you this," she began. "You must first understand that this goes no further?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Is it bad?"  
  
Hermione glanced around again, but as usual, the Library seemed fairly deserted. "Well ... yes, it is," she said. "Draco tried to speak to us for a reason ... he tried to make friends with us because ... well, because his Father was trying to use him to get close to you."  
  
Harry slammed his book shut. What Sirius had warned him about was true no less! How could Hermione do this to him? He felt betrayed ... utterly alone. All that bull about wanting to still be friends? Had she been lying to him?  
  
Sensing his rising anger with her, Hermione put a calming hand on his shoulder, pushed him back down into his seat, which he had been about to get out of.  
  
"Hermione," said Harry, his voice harsh, gritty, and brooding with menacing overtones. "Let go of me."  
  
"Just here me out," said Hermione. "That's all I ask. Then you can make whatever decision you like ... I pray you make the right one."  
  
"The one you'd like me to make!" snarled Harry, making a move to get out of his chair again. "You're conspiring with him ... he's used the Imperius Curse ... or something. No wonder you're flouncing around trying to get me to like him. You're nothing more than a cheap tart! How long have you been a Death Eater Hermione?"  
  
Hermione's blood boiled. She saw red, and before she knew fully what she was doing, she had lashed out, slapping Harry across the face, sending his glasses flying to the floor. She clapped her hand to her mouth.  
  
"Harry ... I ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."  
  
"Get away from me!" snapped Harry. "You've turned Hermione! You've turned, and I want nothing to do with you! Who you choose to follow ... that's your choice, but the way you're going, you're going to have picked the wrong side!"  
  
He forced himself out of his seat, retrieved his glasses from the floor, and before Hermione could stop him, had stormed out of the Library, leaving his essay on the desk.  
  
Hermione held her head in her hands, and began to weep ... the last vestiges of friendship that had still stood between them had just dissolved. She would have to accept there was little she could do about it.  
  
**************  
  
Ron, who had been mooching about the Gryffindor Common Room for most of the day, occasionally trying to interest George in a game of chess, was considerably surprised when the portrait hole burst open, and Harry ran in, his face red, glasses askew, and dashed straight up the stairs to the dormitory. He tactfully waited a few minutes before following him to see what was the matter.  
  
He found Harry sitting on his bed, with his covers wrapped around his body like a shawl. He looked up at the sound of Ron's approach.  
  
"'Lo," he said, in the faintest of faint voices.  
  
"Can I ... sit down?" asked Ron.  
  
"Knock yourself out."  
  
Ron sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress bending under their combined weight. He turned to look at Harry, whose face was tear streaked and blotchy.  
  
"Knut for your thoughts?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Seriously, talk to me," said Ron.  
  
"It's Hermione," said Harry. "She tried to talk to me in the Library ... she was about to tell me why we should all be nice to Draco. I ... I was prepared to give her a chance. It looked like it might all be okay, that we'd be able to be friends again, that everything could go back to being the way it was. But what she told me, about Draco."  
  
He sniffed mightily. Ron did the only thing he could think of to do, and put his arm around Harry's shoulders. "Don't stop talking," he whispered.  
  
"Ron, it was horrible ... she said, she said Draco was only trying to talk to us because his Father wanted to use me, wanted him to get close to me."  
  
"What did you say?"  
  
"I didn't let her finish. I snapped, I called her, I called her things I know I regret," said Harry. "I accused her of going over to the Dark Side ... being a Death Eater," he rested his head on Ron's shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry."  
  
"Harry ... it's, it's okay," said Ron. He could not recall Harry being like this before, and it spooked him to see that his friend, the strong one who he had always respected and admired for his past ... was also possessed of a more vulnerable nature than he had ever believed possible. It changed everything.  
  
"It isn't," said Harry, sitting up straight again. "I'm, I'm sorry ... what you must think of me."  
  
"I think no worse of you," said Ron. "Even Mum says it's okay to have emotions."  
  
"Not for me," said Harry. "I can't afford them."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Ron.  
  
"What are they going to say outside?" asked Harry. "If they see me like this, I'm not famous, or great, or good, I'm just some daft kid."  
  
"You're not a daft kid," said Ron. "I don't see why you're worried about being famous."  
  
"You're not though, are you," said Harry. "That first day I ever went to Diagon Alley ... I was with Hagrid, and it was my eleventh birthday ... God I wish Hagrid was here ... but you couldn't have known what it was like. You were brought up a wizard ... I've just found out, remember, and now suddenly there's all these people, and I mean like, really strange people trying to shake my hand. It was a relief to get out of there."  
  
"Who says anybody from ... well, from outside is going to see you?" asked Ron.  
  
"Hermione will have released that foul Skeeter woman by now," moped Harry.  
  
Ron shook his head. "She hasn't," he said. "She still lives in that jam jar. I've seen it. Look, forget Hermione for one minute."  
  
"I can't," sniffed Harry.  
  
"Why not?" asked Ron.  
  
"Can I trust you not to tell anybody about this?" asked Harry, looking up and fixing Ron.  
  
Ron nodded. "You know you can," he said.  
  
"I went, I, well. God this is hard," Harry turned away for a second to regain his composure, then began to speak again. "The other, well, after, no. Um. I've been realising for some time, you see, that I'm, well, not in, yes, I suppose I am, with Hermione?"  
  
"I understand," said Ron.  
  
"The other day ... well, a few days ago now, I went to her in the Library, to ask her, and see what she thought of me," said Harry. "She said no. She said she didn't think that was what I really wanted. I know why she said that now."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Harry gave Ron a withering look.  
  
"Oh right, I get it," he said. "The Draco Malfoy thing."  
  
Harry nodded. "It isn't fair," he said.  
  
Ron didn't have the first idea what to say to him, so he made noncommittal noises.  
  
"I'm just so miserable."  
  
Ron, sensing wisely that Harry did not want to talk further, made the decision to tactfully withdraw, leaving Harry sitting alone on his bed, still shrouded in the covers.  
  
I poured out my heart to Hermione ... he was thinking ... and she told me no. She's probably sitting with Draco right now, laughing at my stupidity. There was no denying it ... Draco was a handsome young man, and he, Harry, had little to recommend about him. He had never been in awe of his own appearance, he had always been the little scrappy kid crouching at the front of school photographs, hair a mess, tie skew-whiff, mud stains on trouser legs ... the one whose name nobody could ever remember. 'Who was that one then? What was his name? Henry Porter wasn't it? Harold Pointer? Dunno ... began with an H though. German maybe? Herman Pfalzer?'  
  
No, the only thing Harry had ever liked about his appearance was the long, lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Before he knew how he had got it ... back in the days when he had been living in Little Whinging with the Dursleys, he had romanticized about how exactly it had come about, choosing to negate Aunt Petunia's firm assertion that it was the result of a car crash ... which had usually been followed by a sharp clout around the back of the head for asking too many questions.  
  
The scar had made him famous, no doubt about that. But it had been only in the last year that he had come to notice that fame. People had pointed at him since he had arrived at Hogwarts ... but by his Third Year he had become a fixture ... much like one of the castle ghosts ... just a part of the furniture, something to be remarked upon only by people who had never seen him before. Then had come that bloody tournament. And now there were people, people like Fudge, who four years earlier would have shaken his hand and told all their friends they had met Harry Potter, who thought he was barking mad. He wasn't stupid, he had been reading the papers. He knew what people were writing about him.  
  
At times like these, he was often wont to take out his photo album. The one Hagrid had given him, with the pictures of his parents, first as children, then teens ... some holiday snaps, wedding photos. His Christening photos, other photos of him with his parents, usually no more than a bundle of white fluffy blankets being held proudly in his Mother's arms.  
  
The photos were all he had left ... save for that awful memory, the flash of green light and the high pitched laughter ... snatches of that terrible night often haunted his dreams, sometimes very vividly. The photos offered him solace when he was down, a lift if he was upset. Harry leant down, and pulled open the second drawer from the top in his bedside cabinet. This was his most secret drawer ... the place he could hide things that he wanted nobody else to see, except of course, being a wizard, the things Harry kept in his drawer were different from the things you would expect to find ... there were no illicit bottles of Hooch, no saucy magazines. Instead there was a folded piece of tissue paper, covering two leather bound books. One of them was his photo album, the other a smaller volume, bound in black, with the single word 'Notes' embossed in gold upon the cover. Harry had never shown this second book to another soul.  
  
He opened the photo album. On every page, Potters were waving to him, ducking in and out of the photos, grimacing and alternately grinning inanely, sometimes shuffling their feet nervously.  
  
Harry pulled one of the pictures out of its mount. It had been taken on his parents' wedding day. Scrawled on the back in a hand unrecognisable to him was 'me, James and Lily.' The photo showed what was unmistakably a younger Doctor Jones, and one far more radiantly beautiful than the current model. She had evidently been the one to donate this particular photo. Harry put the picture back into the album, and turned over the page. There was his Dad ... standing proudly next to a brand new bright red Ford Cortina. There was his Mum, holding what appeared at first glance to be a bundle of blankets, beaming with undisguised delight, and fluttering her eyelids at the camera. The baby Harry revealed himself by waving a tiny hand in the air.  
  
Harry had always been struck by this particular photo, especially as when the wind was blowing the right way, the blankets ruffled so as to show his forehead, which looked somehow naked without his scar. He did something he had never done before ... he took it out of the album, and again was surprised to see that someone had written on it.  
  
'Our darling baby. 4 days old. Richmond Park.'  
  
He turned the picture over again ... the background showed a vista of green ... trees in full leaf ... tall grasses waving in the breeze ... and in the far distance, the tower blocks of London.  
  
Harry turned over the page. Here were photos of his parents in front of a cottage covered in dense ivy ... here with another couple ... whom Harry recognised as none other than Sirius and Doctor Jones. There were two other men in the photo. One of them was Remus Lupin, whom Harry knew through having been taught by him in his Third Year. The other was unknown to Harry. He looked kind of like a younger version of Albus Dumbledore ... which of course, he may very well have been.  
  
**************  
  
Dumbledore was drafting a letter to an old friend in India when the knock came. Four times in quick succession ... a harsh tapping on his fine old oak door.  
  
"Come," he said. He signed his name at the bottom of the parchment, underlined it with a flourish, and then rolled up the parchment.  
  
The knocking came again.  
  
"I said come in!" called Dumbledore, in a voice that betrayed the increasing annoyance in his voice. It was late Sunday evening, and he really wanted to get to bed. He melted one end of a stick of red sealing wax in the flickering candle flame, and pressed it to the parchment. So doing, he took up the Hogwarts seal, and pressed it firmly into the wax. The door creaked open, and the figure who stepped into the room was one Dumbledore had been privately hoping would not return to the school for some time.  
  
"Lucius," he said. "What a surprise," the tone of his voice betrayed no evidence to back up those words.  
  
Malfoy removed his cloak, and handed it to one of the pegs on the wall. "I shall waste little time Headmaster," he said. "Further disturbing intelligence has reached me concerning my son. I would like to see him directly."  
  
Dumbledore glanced at the clock ... it was getting on for a quarter to midnight. "I expect Draco will be safely in bed now," he said. "I see little point in disturbing ..."  
  
Malfoy leant on the desk, and put his face close to Dumbledore's. "I'm not entirely certain," he went on, "that you fully understood what I just said. I would like to see my son."  
  
"Quite impossible," said Dumbledore. "He will be asleep, and even if he was not, I have grave doubts as to whether seeing you would be the best thing for him."  
  
"Did I not make myself clear you doddery old fool?" hissed Malfoy. "I want to see my son, and there is no way that a mad old fart is going to stop me. Have we been reading the Prophet lately?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed I have Lucius. It contains disturbing reports, does it not?"  
  
"I might add that the movement to oust you as Headmaster is gaining pace," said Malfoy. "The populace are becoming more and more discontent with what they see, and what they see is a meddlesome old man trying to tell the Ministry what is best for it. As you can see, Voldemort has made no further attacks since that ... ah, night. People are starting to say that Potter is mad, that he is making up stories for his own benefit ... to further his name a bit more. He has lost all credibility, and with it you have lost yours."  
  
"Nevertheless Lucius," said Dumbledore firmly. "I remain confident that Voldemort is indeed amongst us even now. Moreover I know Harry, and I have complete confidence in him as well."  
  
"Favouritism, that is what it is," said Malfoy. "This whole enterprise reeks of favouritism. What did Potter do, bribe you?"  
  
"I would not allow a bribe to cross my palm," said Dumbledore. "I am insulted by your insinuation. Now sir, please remove yourself from my study lest I have you removed by force."  
  
But Malfoy wasn't moving. "Is that why you allowed my boy to be bullied?" he asked. "Harry Potter has had it in for my son since the day he first arrived at this benighted school. You have allowed him quite excessive liberty. If I had been Headmaster, he would have been expelled merely on suspicion of being a Parselmouth."  
  
"Nevertheless, he was not," said Dumbledore. "And as we all know, Harry did not turn out to be the Heir of Slytherin. I fail to see your point. And might I make so bold as to remind you Malfoy, that your family has closer connections to Salazar Slytherin than the Potters. The Chamber of Secrets fiasco is behind us."  
  
"And Draco remains miserable at school and miserable at home," said Malfoy. "He used to be such a happy child. This place has ruined him because he has been consistently downtrodden by those born as Muggles and Mudbloods. Your so called liberalist approach is ruining the best men in this country."  
  
"I would not go so far as to say that you were one of the best men in the country, and in my experience Conservatism counts for very little," said Dumbledore. "Now was there anything else you wanted? I happen to be very tired."  
  
Malfoy hissed. "I believe you presume to insult me Dumbledore. Do you know who you are talking to?"  
  
"A relic of a bygone age," said Dumbledore. "A relic sir, a relic of an outmoded belief system, skulking in a dusty mansion, that I need hardly say is no fit environment to bring up a child. It is people like you that are holding our kind back. There are some of us who do not want to live in a time warp, who can see the advantages that moving forward into broad sunlit uplands can hold. Now kindly leave. This audience is over."  
  
Malfoy folded his arms. "I demand," he said, "to see my son, immediately."  
  
"Draco is sleeping," said Dumbledore. "I will not wake him. Whatever you want to speak with him about will wait until the morning. I emphasise the will for a reason Malfoy. Perhaps you would like us to arrange rooms in Hogsmeade for the night?"  
  
Malfoy shook his head. "This attitude to your charges surely explains your current image crisis," he said. "I believed you helped those who were being victimised."  
  
"I am helping your son," said Dumbledore. "I am helping him by keeping you from him ... I do not believe your influence to be conducive to his happiness."  
  
Malfoy's face was twisted into a paroxysm of rage. "How dare you sir!"  
  
"Draco has told us a considerable amount," said Dumbledore. Malfoy's face dropped like a stone. "I believe it was very hard for him to speak out ... I believe he displayed great courage and bravery, more perhaps than he has ever had to show before. That is the reason I will not let you see him without his permission."  
  
Malfoy was glaring at Dumbledore with something approaching murder glinting in his eyes. "Draco lies," he said, at last, in a very quiet, more subdued voice. "Draco has been lying to you."  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "I fail to see why any boy would make up such accusations. He has told us everything Malfoy ... and as we are in loco parentis at this time ... I cannot let you see him."  
  
"What has he been saying?" asked Malfoy.  
  
"He has made claims, quite startling claims, but ones that given the nature and past record of your family should really have come as no surprise to me. But indeed, they chilled me to the very bone," said Dumbledore. "He claims you have beaten him, many times in the past, often severely, often using a cane or a whip ... which I believe is illegal in this country, and carries a hefty sentence."  
  
"I may have smacked him once or twice for disobedience," said Malfoy. "What Father would not have done?"  
  
"A good one," said Dumbledore. "Malfoy ... I am this close to getting the Social Services involved, they would unhesitatingly remove Draco from your care. Now, I am requesting once more that you leave me now. You may, if you wish return in the morning, at which time we shall see if Draco desires to speak with you. Then you may. Otherwise, under no circumstances."  
  
Malfoy spat on the floor. "I shall return in the morning," he said. "We shall see who has been lying then."  
  
**************  
  
Aeroflot Flight BK362 from London Gatwick touched down on the runway at Baku airport with a squealing of tyres. The sun was rising over the distant mountaintops, and shimmering on the oil streaked surface of the Caspian Sea, whose polluted waters lap gently at the old and once mighty city. Across the rooftops echoed the lilting cry of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer. In the distance the gas flares from the myriad oil rigs blazed.  
  
Chaldean rose from his seat and retrieved the leather case he had brought with him from the overhead locker. He had never had cause to fly as a Muggle before, and it was not an experience he wished to repeat, having been sick five times. Now he had to transfer to a helicopter for the two hour flight to Naxcivan. He had always known that it was sometimes pertinent for Malfoy to act as though he were a respectable Muggle businessman, but he would much have preferred a broomstick.  
  
He had been told to meet Malfoy's representative at the Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet on the Arrivals level, but there was nobody there who looked remotely like the description he had been given. He ordered a black coffee, and sat down to wait.  
  
As it happened, he did not have to wait very long, for the man turned out to have just arrived. He looked just as he had been told ... tall, well over six foot, with jet black hair and an extravagant moustache. He was wearing a cheap blue suit over a shirt that looked to have stepped straight out of the 1970's. He was carrying a very large canvas portmanteau. On his left wrist was a fake gold Rolex. He had the look of a local entrepreneur ... a bit of a dodgy dealer ... the sort of person who would steal your car, re-pray it and then sell it back to you for twice the price.   
  
"Artemis Chaldean?" he asked, sitting down at the tiny table.  
  
Chaldean sipped his vile coffee, and nodded.  
  
"My name is Achmed Al Tamimi. I am the head of Mr Malfoy's Middle-Eastern operations. I believe you have something for me?"  
  
Chaldean nodded. He set down the briefcase on the table, and snapped it open. Inside were stacks of green dollar bills, all tightly bound together with elastic bands.  
  
"One point six million," said Chaldean. "Unused notes."  
  
"It will come in very handy," said Al Tamimi, picking up one of the bundles and tossing it casually from hand to hand. "The ... how you say ... Muggles? They are becoming restless. The bribe will keep their silence. Now, Mr Chaldean, did you have a pleasant flight?"  
  
"It was dire," said Chaldean.  
  
Al Tamimi nodded his head sympathetically. "I quite understand," he said. "I flew up from Tehran yesterday. I would have come by carpet ... but there are disturbing reports coming out of the area."  
  
"What sort of reports?"  
  
"They say wizards are vanishing all over the Middle-East," said Al Tamimi. "Five in the last week alone, two of them in Iraq, another in Syria and two disappeared on the streets of Jerusalem. Some of them were important figures. One was a Ministry wizard, from London."  
  
"Do they know his name?" asked Chaldean.  
  
"Oh yes," said Al Tamimi. "His name is Bill Weasley. There is a photo of him in the newspaper," he unfolded it to show Chaldean ... the picture was of a young looking man with red hair tied back in a ponytail, with a large earring dangling from one ear.  
  
"Looks like a ruffian to me," Chaldean finished his coffee. "Come," he said. "We should get going. There is much to prepare."  
  
"Indeed. Have you ever flown in a helicopter before?" asked Al Tamimi, getting to his feet and taking hold of both Chaldean's leather case and the portmanteau he had been carrying.  
  
"Never," said Chaldean.  
  
"You will find it an interesting experience after broomsticks," said Al Tamimi.  
  
Chaldean did not say he had never actually flown a broom since leaving Hogwarts, all those years ago. During all his years there, he had never been able to amount to much. There had always been others there to steal his limelight. He became aware of Al Tamimi speaking again.  
  
"... did you bring any other bags Mr Chaldean?"  
  
"No, just the case," said Chaldean ... he rose to follow Al Tamimi.  
  
"Very well," said Al Tamimi. "The helicopter is waiting to take us to Naxcivan. I suggest we take advantage of the fine weather, say not my friend?"  
  
The helicopter ride was everything Chaldean had feared it would be. As they flew inland, the terrain became more rugged and desolate, and through the plexi-glass windows he was presented with a stark vista of grey mountains towering over valleys in which nestled tiny villages ... villages where life had probably not changed much in a hundred years. They were leaving the oil rich coast behind ... up in the Caucasus Mountains life was wilder, harsher. Dragons lived up here, and down on the ground, in the more inaccessible valleys, roamed the precious tricorns. If they crashed up here, they would be done for. They flew through canyons so narrow and so rocky Chaldean was certain they must be the first humans to ever set eyes upon them.  
  
After what seemed like hours of flying, Al Tamimi pointed straight ahead, over the pilot's shoulder. Chaldean followed his gaze. Standing high on an isolated ridge, with no apparent approach save from from the air was a dark, brooding castle, turrets soaring high into the early morning sky. They hovered over the largest turret, from which flew the Azerbaijani flag, before dropping to the ground. Men in voluminous black cloaks raced across the pad to open the doors for him. Ducking to avoid the spinning rotors Chaldean followed Al Tamimi, still holding both the briefcase and the portmanteau sprinted across the rooftop to safety.  
  
**************  
The weather in the north of England that morning was in stark contrast to the bright Russian sunshine. It was raining again. Ron awoke slightly later than everyone else, and stumbled into the Hall at twenty five past eight, just as Harry was finishing his porridge. Hermione had returned to the other end of the table. The previous evening she had tried once more to approach him ... to try and explain what he had not given her a chance to before. Harry, however, would have none of it, and had rebuked her more strongly than ever before ... an argument had ensued in which they had both said some things they were now, secretly, regretting, though Harry was too proud to admit it, and Hermione too scared of what he might say to her if she approached him.  
  
Ron took a seat next to Harry, who looked up as he sat down, and gave a start. "I wasn't ... um, I wasn't expecting to see you," he said. Ron noticed he was sliding something under the table as he spoke.  
  
"What are you hiding?" asked Ron suspiciously, helping himself to bacon.  
  
"Nothing," said Harry. "Not hiding anything."  
  
Ron held out his hand ... he noticed Harry had gone pale, a deadly white, all the colour drained from his face.  
  
"Has something happened?" he asked.  
  
Harry, resignedly, withdrew a copy of that morning's Daily Prophet. "Front page," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm sorry."  
  
Ron seized the paper, and unfolded it. What he saw made a rush of cold, deathlike fear sweep across his body. He pushed his breakfast away. There, underneath a large colour photo of Bill was the headline 'Gringott's Wizard Missing in Syria: Foul Play Suspected.'  
  
He read on, 'Ministry of Magic sources today confirmed that Gringotts staff member William Weasley (23), who works as a Curse Breaker for the Bank's Cairo Division disappeared on Saturday afternoon whilst on a hiking holiday with friends in Syria. Weasley, former Head Boy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was last seen by his friends Renee Gudgeon (23) and Valentino D'Abruzzo (25), who both work for Gringotts in the vicinity of the town of Aleppo, in the west of the country. Gudgeon reports that 'Bill left early in the morning to collect food supplies from the souk. He did not return.' The Ministry's Ambassador in Damascus, Brian Keating has issued the following statement, 'This incident comes at a time when relations between British and Syrian Magical Agencies are at an all time high. I regard this as an isolated incident and maintain that it is safe for British citizens to travel in Syria. My hope is that Mr Weasley will be found alive and well.' Weasley's family are currently being cared for be friends at home in Ottery St Catchpole, Dorset, and have declined to comment at this time. Senior investigators for the International Magical Criminal Investigation Bureau, based in Geneva, who have been called in as a matter of course, say that that the possibility of kidnap cannot be ruled out at this stage. It is known that powerful sects do still exist in the Middle East, who would, according to a spokesman, 'Have much to gain through high profile acts of terrorism.' One of these sects, known as the 'Silver Serpent' is known to have had links in the past to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and is possibly active in the area. The Daily Prophet wishes to add its commiserations to the Weasley family at their time of trial, and we pray for the safe return of their son.'  
  
"I didn't mean for you to see that," said Harry. "Seamus showed me the paper."  
  
Ron folded the paper gravely in half, and set it down on the table ... so doing he pulled his breakfast plate back towards him, and took up his fork. "Perhaps it was better I found out," he said, quietly. Harry noticed that his face had gone pale ... almost the same shade as it did whenever he saw a spider.  
  
"Ron?"  
  
But he did not reply.  
  
**************  
  
Draco stopped suddenly at the sight that confronted him. He had been on his way to the Slytherin Common Room for a quick shower before everyone else got back from breakfast and would have an opportunity to steal his towel again. He was just walking down the steps towards the dungeons when his Father stepped out of one of the shadows.  
  
"Good morning Draco," he said. "How fair you this day?"  
  
Draco gave him a very funny look. "I'm fine, I suppose," he said. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"A Father cannot come and speak with his own son?" asked his Father.  
  
"I told Dumbledore I didn't wan..."  
  
"I do not need Dumbledore's permission to come and speak with my own son," scoffed his Father. "Besides, I know you do not mean it."  
  
"I do mean it," snapped Draco ... looking up, his Father was much taller than him, and cut an intimidating figure. "I told him I didn't want to see you. I told him everything."  
  
He became aware that his Father was looking at him with something approaching pity in his eyes. "What has become of you Draco?" he asked, in a voice low and full of great sadness. Draco could not tell whether he was putting it on or not. "You used to be such a happy child."  
  
Draco sneered. "However did I give you that impression," he asked ... he felt as though his feet were rooted to the very spot upon which he was standing ... he was incapable of movement.  
  
"I remember when you used to play in my study when I was working," said his Father. He bent down close to Draco. "You had all your little broomsticks ... you used to think you were so grown up, that you could come and work with me."  
  
"Then you smacked me when I got too noisy," snapped Draco. "That hurt ... why did you do that?"  
  
His Father put his hands on both Draco's shoulders, and looked deep into his eyes. "Every boy must be rebuked by his parents if he misbehaves," he said.  
  
"Not beaten with a strap then?" asked Draco.  
  
His Father looked hurriedly away. "Every parent does it," he said. "Do not think yourself in any way special because I have punished you in the past," he said. "I always made it up to you ... I never enjoyed it."  
  
"You bribed me, is what you mean," said Draco. "Toys are all very well ... but I've ..."  
  
His father silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Draco. I never meant to hurt you ... I never thought I was hurting you."  
  
Draco could feel tears welling up in his eyes again. He stared down at the floor, and tried not to show it.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco bit his lip, and looked up again. "You beat me so hard I was black and blue for weeks ... because I dropped my ice cream cone! And you think you weren't hurting me?"  
  
"Draco ... please. We have a lot to live up to."  
  
"Screw the ancestors!" Draco spat.  
  
His Father snarled, and before Draco was fully aware of what was happening, he had been smacked hard across the face.  
  
"Never. Never insult the memory of your ancestors!" roared his Father. He grabbed Draco again. "Has this Mudblood been poisoning you then? Has she?"  
  
"Mudblood Father?"  
  
"Don't pretend you do not know what I am talking about Draco. Hermione Granger. She has poisoned you against me! Against your own flesh and blood! Do you know how that feels for me ... how sad that makes me?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "I don't care anymore," he said quietly. "Hermione has not poisoned me against you. She's good and she's kind and she knows how ... she knows how to make me feel wanted, and that's something you could never do."  
  
"Yet she is a Mudblood Draco."  
  
"What does that matter?" asked Draco. "We would have died out centuries ago if we hadn't married into Muggle families."  
  
His Father's face went red with impotent rage. "Sacrilege," he snarled, his voice filled with such anger as Draco could never remember having had to face before in his life. "After all I had taught you ... after I raised you, fed you and clothed you, all your life. You turn on me?"  
  
"I suppose I do," said Draco. He tried to step backwards, but his Father grabbed him by the arm and yanked it sharply. Draco yelped in pain.  
  
"All your life I cared for you ... this is how you repay me," he grabbed Draco by the front of his robes, and pulled him sharply upwards, pinning him against the hard stone wall of the corridor.  
  
"Father, please!" squealed Draco.  
  
"In your heart you know you must be punished for such thoughts Draco," growled his Father.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, opened his mouth and screamed, screamed like he never had done before. His only chance ... if someone heard him.  
  
Someone did ... he heard running footsteps, shouts, and then the heavy footfall of someone descending stairs at speed. His Father let go of him in a hurry, and he fell the rest of the way to the floor.  
  
Doctor Jones stopped dead at the end of the corridor, and took in the scene before her. Draco was sitting on the floor, looking slightly dazed, as he had cracked his head. Standing over him was Lucius Malfoy, his harsh face contorted into a look of pure, unadulterated rage.  
  
"Mr Malfoy! Whatever do you think you are doing?"  
  
Malfoy turned on her. "Is there no way a man can conduct business in a fair and civilized manner these days? Must I be continually interrupted by interfering busybodies?"  
  
Doctor Jones, though a whole foot shorter than Mr Malfoy, appeared to show no fear of the apparently reformed Death Eater. She stormed down the corridor to where Draco was sitting, leaning against the wall, rubbing his head.  
  
"Might I remind you Mr Malfoy?" she growled. "That you are currently not the most favoured person on these premises."  
  
"How insightful," snarled Malfoy, in a voice laden with lashings of sarcasm.  
  
"Dumbledore has told me of your conversation last night. I believe he told you that you would not be permitted to see your son unless he expressly wished it to be so?"  
  
"He may have said something along those lines," said Malfoy. "Personally ma'am, I have always taken the words of Albus Dumbledore with a pinch of salt. The man is a crackpot after all."  
  
If looks could have killed, Doctor Jones would have been facing genocide charges. "Never insult Albus Dumbledore in my presence. He is a great man ... and he has done more to preserve our liberties and rights than any man living."  
  
Malfoy chuckled. "The man is a lunatic," he said. "His ramblings grow more and more unbelievable every time I am forced to listen to them ... he feeds off the lies and tales of a boy whose claim to fame is a mere scar."  
  
Doctor Jones was not listening. She had bent down next to Draco, and was helping him to his feet.  
  
"Do you hear me ma'am? Or do you presume to ignore me?"  
  
"I presume to ignore you," said Doctor Jones. "I am going to take Draco up to Dumbledore's office now. You will leave this school forthwith. Rest assured we will be investigating the charges Draco has laid against you with the full powers available to us."  
  
Malfoy grabbed her by the arm ... his face pale. Draco looked up at him. He was scared. He had never seen his own Father scared by anything before. "Madam ... I assure you Draco is merely embellishing as any adolescent would. He is undergoing traumatic biological changes," Draco resented this comment, "and it is only natural for a child to rebel against those nearest and dearest to him."  
  
"I doubt Draco has ever had the chance to get near you," hissed Doctor Jones. "From what Dumbledore has told me ... what boy would fabricate charges of child abuse?"  
  
Malfoy appeared to be opening and shutting his mouth like a fish caught out of water. For the first time in his life, he was lost for words.  
  
Doctor Jones turned to Draco. "We'd better get you upstairs my boy. Come along."  
  
**************  
  
Dumbledore was waiting for them in his vast study ... it was almost, Draco thought, as though he had been waiting for them all along.  
  
"Take a seat Draco," he said in a small, quiet voice. Once again his manner astounded Draco, who had never thought Dumbledore had had ... indeed, had never given him, much reason to like him at all. He was a Slytherin after all. Of course, thinking about it, nobody had ever bothered to tell him what house Dumbledore had been in ... assuming he had even gone to Hogwarts.  
  
"Well," Dumbledore went on. "I must say I was rather expecting something like this to happen. Have we any idea how he got back into the school Doctor?"  
  
Doctor Jones shook her head. "I thought you had put a charm on the front gate."  
  
"Evidently no obstacle to him," said Dumbledore. "I take it he is on his way," he turned to Draco. "I must make my apologies to you young man. I confess myself to have been foolish enough to believe that your Father would not flout my word."  
  
"You spoke to him?" asked Draco.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "He came to see me last night," he said. "I told him ... well, I told him it would be impossible to see you without your permission."  
  
"Too right," said Draco, whose head was still hurting where he had hit it on the stones. "I hate him."  
  
"I think hate is too strong a word Draco," said Dumbledore. "Whatever he may have done to you in the past ... he does remain your Father. There are some barriers even hate cannot destroy."  
  
Draco gave him a very funny look, but Dumbledore did not notice it. "No," he said. "I really do think I hate him."  
  
Dumbledore removed his reading glasses from his long, crooked nose, and peered blindly at Draco. He polished the glasses on the hem of his robes, and then slipped them back on again before speaking. "Dear me Draco. I do believe he has greatly affected you."  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"The funny thing is, how you never showed it in the past. This interests me Draco. Is it the influence of Hermione Granger, who I must admit is a worthy ally to have on your side? Or is there something else. Something I remain unaware of perhaps?"  
  
Draco, unnerved by the way Dumbledore appeared to be staring right through him, looked down at his shoes, and mumbled a reply.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"I said," said Draco. "There is something ... but I don't want to tell."  
  
"I think it might help you very much if you did," said Dumbledore. "Are you sure you do not wish to tell me Draco?" he asked.  
  
If Draco told ... he could end this now. It would be over. Dumbledore was a wise man ... a benevolent man, and a powerful wizard too. Surely he would afford the protection he would need. But could he say? His Father had told him that Chaldean was likewise a wizard and sorcerer of great power. Surely he would be able to track him down. He took a deep breath ... realising as he did so that he held all the cards, and he held them very close to his chest indeed. He alone held the key ... he alone could blow the whistle.  
  
"Draco?" asked Dumbledore, leaning closer to the boy, who seemed to be shrinking further and further into himself. Gone was the smug, supremely confident Draco Malfoy he had known, and the replacement was a child so fundamentally altered it seemed barely possible they could be the same person.  
  
"If I tell you," said Draco. "Will you help me?"  
  
"In what way do you want me to help you Draco?"  
  
"Sir ... this," Draco faltered briefly. "This is ... I mean to say, big."  
  
"How big exactly?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
"It could ... it could cost lives. I can't handle that knowledge. You know ... you know my Father was a Death Eater?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "He would have been the Ministry's prize catch," he mused. "It would have been the icing on the cake. Do continue."  
  
"After Vo ... You-Know-Who disappeared, he turned."  
  
"How do you mean, turned?"  
  
"He said ... he said he had realised the evils that You-Know-Who had done, and he, he said he bound himself over not to allow them to happen again. He fell in with a man called Chaldean."  
  
"Artemis Chaldean," said Dumbledore. "Everybody thought him dead for a long time. Professor Snape mentioned him to me just the other night."  
  
"Chaldean is, is still a very powerful man ... and he is a man who wants to stop You-Know-Who from regaining power."  
  
"He was a Death Eater. Tell me why he would wish to do that?"  
  
"He said ... he also had seen that what You-Know-Who did was wrong. He took the same vow as my Father. They fell in together. My Father turned spy for him. You-Know-Who believes his most faithful Death Eater is once again in his orbit, when in reality quite the opposite is true," Draco paused, stared down at the floor.  
  
"You will have to forgive me Draco," said Dumbledore. "I ... perhaps I am being slow. But I fail to see exactly what this has to do with the fact that you hate your Father."  
  
"All my life," said Draco quietly. "All my life he trained and groomed me for my future life. I was to serve You-Know-Who ... that was to be my destiny. But that was a lie ... that was never true. All the time he wanted me for Chaldean. He ... I hate him for that ... and I hate him for the other things."  
  
"I see," said Dumbledore. "You believe your loyalties lie with Lord Voldemort?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "I did," he said. "I was ... I was to have become a Death Eater next year, on my sixteenth birthday. I doubt that will happen."  
  
"You do not wish to?"  
  
"Not anymore Sir," said Draco, looking into Dumbledore's eyes. Dumbledore felt something deep within himself give way and collapse. The boy's gaze seemed to penetrate his skull, to be almost within him. And he truly believed he had never seen anything so sorrowful in all his days on this Earth. And he knew too, that Draco was telling the gospel truth.  
  
"I believe you," he whispered.  
  
Draco somehow felt bound to elaborate. "Hermione showed me that," he said. "Before I would have rather died than be seen with, well, with a Muggle born."  
  
"I understand," said Dumbledore. "Draco ... I understand the last weeks have been hard for you..."  
  
"There is more," said Draco.  
  
"Then do go on."  
  
"Chaldean, and my Father. They had plans for me too," said Draco. "They wanted me to bring them Harry ... Harry Potter ... so that they could use him as a pawn to fight and defeat Voldemort."  
  
"Draco ... why did you not say before?"  
  
"I'm saying now," said Draco. "That is why I tried to talk to him, to make friends. It's why the Slytherins..."  
  
"Draco..."  
  
"They gave me drugs to do it with," said Draco. "Dragon trees ... Dracaena."  
  
"How apt," said Dumbledore. "You still have these plants?"  
  
Draco nodded. "They're downstairs, hidden under my bed. P ... please say you won't expel me."  
  
"I have no intention of expelling you Draco," said Dumbledore. "If you can give me your word that the plants have not been used to prepare any solutions of potions, of any kind?"  
  
"They haven't," said Draco. "I couldn't touch them once."  
  
"Thank you Draco. I think you ought really to return to your classes. But there is one last thing?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"We have been put in something of an awkward situation Draco," said Dumbledore. "The accusations you have placed against your Father, we three of us have discussed them, that is, myself, Professor Snape and Dcotor Jones, and we have come to a decision that it would be in your best interests to call in the Department of Magical Social Services ... sort this out once and for all. We would, ah ... however, need your consent to do this."  
  
"I don't know what I want," breathed Draco. "May I think about that sir?"  
  
"Take as long as you like. My office door is almost always open," said Dumbledore. "Now be about your business. We can't have you missing lessons on my account."  
  
**************  
  
Ron tried not to show it, but the news about his brother had cut him up severely, and he spent most of Monday trailing Harry around the school, snapping at people when they tried to come forward and offer their sympathies. Even Hermione tried to approach him later that morning, but Ron had already been primed against her by Harry, following the events of the previous day, and he very nearly bit her head clean off. It was during Care of Magical Creatures, however, that the worst incident occurred.  
  
It being such a miserable day, Sirius had once again moved the class indoors to one of the empty classrooms, which meant they would be continuing their theory work on tricorn anatomy, which wasn't very fascinating.  
  
As was fast becoming her custom, Hermione sat down next to Draco, to jeers and boos from the Slytherins, and glares from the Gryffindors. Unfortunately for the Slytherins, Sirius chose that moment to enter the classroom, looking flustered and angry about something, and took the opportunity to have a good go at the Slytherins. This lasted several minutes, and was so severe that even the Gryffindors, who weren't in trouble, were staring at the floor and wishing themselves desperately to be anywhere but here.  
  
The class then proceeded smoothly for about half an hour, at which point Sirius, who hadn't read the papers, made some inopportune comment about tricorn habitats in the Middle-East, which caused Ron to flee from the room, his face red with sadness, his bottom lip quivering slightly and his fists clenched tight.  
  
Sirius shot a glare at the class. "If I hear one word out of you, I'll nail every last one of you to Charing Cross Station," he glared once more, and disappeared through the door, slamming it shut behind him.  
  
To Sirius' great relief, Ron had not gone far ... he was sitting in a disconsolate heap on the flagstone floor a little way down the corridor, his face buried in his hands.  
  
"Would you care to tell me what that was all about?" asked Sirius, kneeling down beside the boy.  
  
Ron shook his head.  
  
"Then would you please come back to my class and stop wasting everybody's time," said Sirius ... as far as he was concerned nothing untoward at all had happened ... Ron was simply trying to create a spectacle of himself. Ron, however, declined to move.  
  
"Please get up Ron?" said Sirius. "I can't have students leaving my lessons as and when it suits them."  
  
"It has nothing to do with your lesson," Ron began, in between gulps ... he was mercifully cut short by Professor McGonagall, who turned the corner into the corridor at that moment.  
  
"Si ... " she began. "Mister Wilmot. I was meaning to have a word with some of your pupils. Could you spare Mister Weasley for a few minutes?"  
  
"I dare say," said Sirius. He gestured to Ron. "This one seems a little out of sorts," he whispered.  
  
"I think I know why. Come along Ronald," Professor McGonagall was saying.  
  
"I am afraid I have some very bad news for you," said Professor McGonagall. "If you would like to accompany me up to my office?"  
  
Ron trailed along in her wake, like a cygnet following a parent swan, stumbling up staircases and along corridors. Finally, they reached Professor McGonagall's office. She turned to him, and said. "Ron, come in."  
  
Ron followed her into the office, and allowed himself to be shown to one of the seats. He had been there several times before, though almost always in unhappy circumstances.  
  
"Ron ... are you aware of the recent events that have transpired?"  
  
"If you mean my brother Professor, then yes, Harry showed me a paper this morning."  
  
"I see," said Professor McGonagall. "I am afraid Ron, that your family has written to me here, asking that you be sent home for a few days."  
  
"But why?"  
  
Professor McGonagall glared at him. "One would have thought you would be grateful for the time off," she said. "To be amongst your loved ones at this time. I have spoken to your brothers and your sister, and they will be leaving tonight on the London train. I think you should accompany them."  
  
"What about Harry?"  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"I'm worried about him," said Ron, hanging his head.  
  
Professor McGonagall sighed deeply ... she seemed to be dealing with more than her fair share of troubled students just lately. Surely Harry wasn't having problems too?  
  
"In what way?" asked Professor McGonagall.  
  
"He seems down," said Ron. "I think it has something to do with Hermione."  
  
"Be that as it may, your family's request was for you to return home for a few days, just to help out and be supportive. I am certain Harry remains quite capable of taking care of himself."  
  
"I understand," though he wasn't quite so sure.  
  
"Thank you Ron. Pack some things and be in the courtyard at five o'clock this afternoon. You'd better get back to Siri ... Mr. Wilmot's lesson now. You might miss something important."  
  
Ron rose thankfully from his chair, and left the room.  
  
**************  
The room was filled with darkness so complete, so all enveloping that it was impossible even to make out movement. Lucius Malfoy stood stock still beside what he knew to be the wall, and shivered slightly ... for being dark, it was also freezing cold.  
  
Somewhere else in the house a gong sounded. Malfoy heard footsteps in the distance ... marching footsteps, feet tramping upon stones. Then just as suddenly, they stopped. Then the gong sounded again.  
  
Instantly, the room was flooded with light. Malfoy saw that he was standing not in a room, but in a large hall. At one end was a fireplace elaborately and artfully carved. There were logs in the fireplace ... new ones, but nobody had set light to them. Hanging from the walls were ornate tapestries, finely woven depictions of ancient scenes, magical rites and religious practices. Running around the top of the hall was what appeared to be a gallery.  
  
Malfoy took another step into the room, and when nothing happened, walked slowly across it towards the fireplace. As he stood before it, the logs suddenly burst into flames, and he could feel their life giving heat warming his frozen presence.  
  
The gong sounded again, startling him momentarily. He turned round, and looked up to the gallery. There were six or seven masked men standing there. Death Eaters.  
  
"Malfoy. Do you understand why you have been brought here?" a voice, loud, echoing and booming around the hall.  
  
Malfoy shook his head.  
  
"You have allowed one of our number to slip away from us. We are not pleased with you."  
  
"I don't understand," began Malfoy, but even he knew this was a lie ... of course he understood.  
  
"We refer to your child. We are gravely disappointed with his progress. The initiation draws near, and instead of preparing for the role we have predestined for him, he is intriguing with Mudbloods and those who would seek to destroy us."  
  
"I tried to speak to him this morning," protested Malfoy.  
  
"Silence," hissed the man who was speaking. "We are aware of what you tried to do. However, the fact remains that you did not do it."  
  
"It was difficult," said Malfoy. "The staff are watching the boy like hawks."  
  
"That is of no interest to us," said the speaker. "Be thankful, Lucius Malfoy, that our Master is not here to punish your failure. Be thankful he has delegated such odious tasks to us, his loyal servants."  
  
"My friend. There is no need for ..."  
  
"Silence Malfoy! Speak not again! We are aware of your history, and your upbringing of Draco has been stern and fair so far. For this reason we have decided to not to punish you both too harshly."  
  
"You don't understand," began Malfoy. But before he could finish, he had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse, and had fallen to the floor in agony.  
  
**************  
  
Darkness was falling as the train rattled relentlessly southward. Ron sat glumly in a compartment with Fred, George and Ginny. Nobody was saying much ... indeed, even Fred and George seemed to be resisting the opportunity to make some crass joke ... though under the circumstances, this was probably not altogether surprising. Each of them was secretly wondering what would be going on at home ... how their Mother would have taken the news, probably badly. Each of them were dreading arriving at King's Cross.  
  
Hour after hour they journeyed southwards. The harsh, bare Northumbrian mountains gave way to the more serene and picturesque moors ... they passed through cities alive with cars and people. Newcastle, Durham, York, Leeds. The moors gave way in turn to gentler, more pastoral countryside, dotted with farms and churches. Ron fell asleep.  
  
And awoke again. The train had stopped, and the lights in their compartment had gone out. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Ron could make out Ginny lying on one of the bench seats, covered by a blanket, fast asleep. Of Fred and George, there was no sign. He stood up, and went over to the window. Outside all was dark. In the distance a faint orange glow lit up the sky, and a few hundred yards away, he could see the headlights of cars and lorries, racing at speed along a motorway. Ron wondered what had awoken him.  
  
There was a woomph of imploding air, and the carriage rocked violently as a Muggle Intercity train flashed past on the next track. Through the lighted windows, Ron could make out people in the restaurant car dining expensively and well. Then just as suddenly as it had come, it was gone again.  
  
He slid open the compartment door, and stepped out into the corridor. The lights were on out here. Ron began to walk down the carriage ... the next compartment to his held two elderly witches who had done nothing but sit and knit since leaving Hogsmeade. Then came two empty compartments, then a young mother nursing a sleeping baby. Ron reached the end of the carriage, contemplated turning back, but saw the sign on the door into the next coach. It was the buffet car. Ron opened the door ... but instead of the scene he expected to find, the carriage was deserted. The shutters at the counter were down, and a small apologetic note had been tacked to it. Ron proceeded down the full length of the carriage, passing the ornate wooden tables.  
  
He passed into the next carriage, which turned out to be First Class. There was only one other passenger here ... a fat, middle aged wizard who was dozing with a copy of the Daily Prophet ... the one bearing Bill's picture, over his face. The compartments here were on the verge of luxurious. The seats were leather, and there were little cut glass lampshades of the type his Grandparents seemed so fond of. Ron pressed on. But this was the last carriage ... the door at the far end opened onto the back of the tender, still piled high with coal.  
  
"Fred, George!"  
  
There was no reply. It was freezing cold, and Ron hugged himself tightly. Should he get off and see what was the matter, find out why they had stopped? What if Fred and George were injured?  
  
Slowly, praying that the train would not suddenly start without him, he clambered down to the ground. The stones clattered under his feet. The only other sound was the distant rush of speeding traffic.  
  
"Fred? George? Is this some kind of joke?"  
  
All of a sudden, Ron felt the sharp touch of cold steel at his neck, and two gloved hands had seized him around the chest. He let out a yell, and kicked viciously, but the grip of his assailant was too strong to be broken.  
  
"Make no noise boy, and you might live," said a soft, menacing voice.  
  
Ron obediently kept quiet as he was frogmarched round to the front of the train. Several hooded figures were standing over something on the track. As the man who had captured Ron lead him through, the others parted to afford him a glimpse of what was lying on the ground.  
  
There were five bodies, laid out side by side, stretched across the track. Three of them wore railwayman's uniforms ... the other two. The other two were Fred and George, beaten and mangled beyond recognition ... their forms bloodied and bruised.  
  
"Another one becomes too curious for his own good," said the man who had seized Ron, thrusting him into the centre of the circle. He stumbled, tripped and fell, landing on the motionless corpse of the driver, and twisting his ankle. He roared in pain.  
  
"What say you Romulus?" asked the man.  
  
"I say kill him, like the others," said the man who had been called Romulus.  
  
"I say not," said another man. "I say take him with us. We shall need a bargaining chip."  
  
"I say beat him, then take him with us."  
  
"Please ... no!"  
  
Romulus stepped forwards, and before Ron knew what was happening, he had been struck hard on the head with a cosh. He saw stars, and fainted, dead to the ground.  
  
A/N  
  
Concluding this part ... but wait, there be more. Gratitude is in order! So which reviewers to note today? Thanks to Karina, Colette, hert0661 (who somehow managed to review twice), Sherry, Kayara (yes, you're right about the rock band ... perhaps I should start one), Paz of the Penguins, Hermione (are you still hungry dear?), me, Keith, Lizzy, Silver Magic, magical little me, Katy D, Inspiring Author (not at ALL naive about sex), Sanna (who reviewed by email), Viola (there was meant to be something dodgy about the pumpkin juice ... in an earlier draft Draco had spiked it with the drugs, but I changed that, so it was actually completely innocuous) and Cassandra Claire, (rapidly re-promoted to major deity lest I offend her completely ... stop schnoogling Harry my dear, it isn't very becoming). A thousand thank yous, and a virtual hug to you all.  



	8. Into Darkness

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
As usual, it all still belongs to JK, I imply neither rights or control over the characters herein, with the exception of Artemis Chaldean and a few minor Death Eaters, oh, and Gwyneth Jones, except she belongs to herself as well. I also noticed I wrote in a new DADA teacher, who seems to be languishing in complete obscurity. Oh well, never mind. On with the story I guess ...  
  
PART EIGHT. INTO DARKNESS.  
  
Dumbledore sat down at his desk ... it was a place at which he had been spending rather a lot of time of late. Professor McGonagall took a seat before him, her face was grim, her eyes slits. She was angry. "I still say we should tell him," she said. "It will be for the best. We have all noticed the changes in him these last couple of days. He has become surly and aggressive; he will keep talking back in class. I think he's pining, Albus ... I think he needs help."  
  
Dumbledore shook his head. "I maintain my position Minerva ... however much you might try to dissuade me, I maintain that for these exact reasons, we should not tell what has happened."  
  
Professor McGonagall looked at her feet. "Well," she said. "I suppose you may be right."  
  
Dumbledore fixed the errant Professor with a steely gaze. "I agree with you in principle, Minerva. I just feel that such information might just tip him over the edge."  
  
Professor McGonagall was nodding gravely. Dumbledore continued to speak.   
  
"Tell me, Minerva. Does the boy have access to newspapers?"  
  
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "I honestly could not say," she said.   
  
"I may have seen him with one once or twice."  
  
"See that he does not get hold of any more."  
  
"He is worrying me," said Professor McGonagall. "I fear we are having some kind of role reversal here. It's probably nothing ... but, well ... no, it's silly actually."  
  
"Tell me anyway."  
  
"I think he's turning into Draco Malfoy."  
  
************  
  
"Harry."  
  
"Fuck off!"  
  
"I was just going to ask you ..."  
  
"Colin, take the hint and bugger off. Now please!"  
  
Colin, however, sat down on the arm of Harry's chair, much to his annoyance.   
  
"But we need to prac..."  
  
"How can we?" interrupted Harry. "We need Fred and George. We can't play without Beaters."  
  
"We can get some substitutes," suggested Colin, brightly.  
  
"Look ... I don't know how much clearer I can make this to you Colin," said Harry. "I am not in the mood to talk Quidditch right now. Okay?"  
  
Colin shrugged. "Be it on your head if we lose to Slytherin next week."  
  
This had been bothering Harry too. But he said nothing. Colin slipped off the arm of his chair, and disappeared up the stairs to bed. Harry supposed he should have done the same thing, but he did not. Instead he rose, stuffed his feet into his slippers, and ambled over to the portrait hole.   
  
Since Sirius had requisitioned his Invisibility Cloak, his nocturnal wanderings had been somewhat curtailed. However, tonight he was in the kind of mood where sensibilities and logic are tossed casually to one side.   
  
Ignoring the tutting of the Fat Lady as he stepped through the door, he headed off to the one place where he could still think straight.  
  
Quite often in the past, Harry's night time adventures had taken him past the very tallest of Hogwarts' towers. Students were not allowed up there in any circumstances ... yet for some time, whenever he had felt down, or in some way disturbed, he had slipped away quietly to sit on the rooftops, and looked out over the wide and beautiful vistas. It was to the top of this tower he went now, climbing carefully up the spiral staircase, which was missing steps in places, crumbling and rotting through woodworm.   
  
Finally, a little out of breath, he reached the top, and pushed open the tiny wooden door. He pulled his dressing gown tight around him as he stepped out onto the cold roof. The sky was clear, the air crisp and clean, and out here, in the middle of nowhere, his view of the constellations was undisturbed by the lights of towns and cities. A fat, full moon was rising slowly over the Hog's Head, the nearest mountain. The fir trees covering the slopes were silhouetted against the pure white orb. Harry could make out the seas and craters on its surface. When he had been little, he had dreamed of going there one day. He looked down over the roofs of Hogwarts. Two hundred feet or more below him was the top of Gryffindor tower, itself one of the tallest present.   
  
There was the courtyard ... there the battlements, there the Astronomy tower with its tiny observatory on top, there the slate grey roof of the Great Hall, with its vast chimneys. Harry looked beyond the walls. There was the winding road, stretching down to the lake, which it crossed on an old stone bridge. There was Hagrid's little hut. In the distance was Hogsmeade.  
  
Harry sat down on the parapet, and dangled his feet over the edge. He felt a rush of exhilaration, almost comparable to flying a broomstick, sweeping over his entire body. Up here, it didn't matter what people thought or who his friends were. Up here he was free to do as he pleased, it was a private, special place. He had never even shown it to Ron. And now Ron was gone. It had been only a day since his departure, but Harry had at least been expecting him to try and communicate. An owl wouldn't have hurt. Apart from Ron, he had nobody else, now that Hermione had gone. Sure he was friends with the other Gryffindors ... Dean, Seamus, Neville ... Lee Jordan, Alicia and Katie ... even Colin Creevey wasn't so bad these days ... but there was never anybody quite the same as Ron and Hermione.  
  
"I want Ron," he whispered to himself.  
  
It dawned on him that he was not alone atop the rickety tower.   
  
Footsteps behind him ... the sound of someone breathing. Then a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"What's up, Harry?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Just thinking," said Harry.  
  
"Just thinking ... in your pyjamas, on top of the tallest tower at the dead of night?" asked Sirius, sitting down on the parapet next to him.  
  
"Just thinking," repeated Harry.  
  
Sirius removed his cloak, and draped it around Harry's shivering shoulders. He was wearing a very large and colourful jumper underneath. He looked almost like a Muggle.  
  
"What are you doing up here?" asked Harry, turning to look into his Godfather's eyes.  
  
"I quite often come up here," said Sirius, defensively. "It used to be one of my favourite haunts. We would sit for hours up here, passing the night, watching the view. Sometimes we stayed until dawn, to watch the sun come up."  
  
"Who?" asked Harry.  
  
"Sometimes I came with Gwyneth," said Sirius. "Sometimes with your Dad ... sometimes with Remus and Peter ... sometimes we all came up here to camp out, even Lily."  
  
Harry looked down at the ground far, far below.  
  
"Did my Dad like it up here?" he asked.  
  
"He thought it was the best," said Sirius. "Hours he'd spend, looking at the stars ... working out which ones he wanted to visit and in what order. He was quite the dreamer, your old man."  
  
"What was he really like?" asked Harry.  
  
"He was ... he was a good man, Harry. He never failed to make me smile, once, in all those years. Always there, always happy ... God he used to bloody infuriate me."  
  
Harry smiled.  
  
"I can't remember much else," said Sirius. "It all seems so long ago now. So much happened to all of   
us. It seems like I was living another life."  
  
Harry could understand what Sirius meant.  
  
"But we aren't here to talk about my stuffy old memories," said Sirius. "At least, I hope we aren't. What brings you here Harry?"  
  
"I was, I like it up here," said Harry. "It clears my head sometimes. I need to do that tonight."  
  
"You remember what I told you about wandering around the school?" asked Sirius.  
  
Harry nodded. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll go back to bed."  
  
"Sod it," said Sirius. "I'm here ... there's nothing going to happen. Besides, I need the company."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry.  
  
Sirius put his arm around the boy. "I remember the last time I saw you with your parents." To his surprise, Harry did not say anything to this. "You okay?"  
  
Harry nodded. "You know ... I actually quite like it ... it's kind of interesting."  
  
"What is?"  
  
"You telling me about how it used to be," said Harry.  
  
Sirius appeared to be gazing at the Dog Star, which was glowing brightly in the north, suspended above the summit of the distant Cheviot. "Sorry," he said. "Was miles away for a minute or two. Well ... it was ... um, a couple of days before the attack. I'd been up helping them sort out their stuff. There was a mortgage to rearrange, and furniture to shift. They were just about to start redecorating your nursery. You were going to get Quidditch wallpaper ... they'd bought rolls specially. I think your Dad was rather keen for you to support the Wasps."  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"The Wimbourne Wasps. Between you and me, he'd be turning in his grave if he knew his own son was a Cannons supporter. Anyway... they had Gwyneth and I stripping all the old decorations down. Your Mum was down in the kitchen ... you were crawling about and putting your hands in the paste."  
Harry grinned. "I remember that because you tried to grab me round the legs," said Sirius. "Ruined my best pair of trousers you did. I might hold you to a new pair one of these days." Sirius smiled. "Good times," he said. "Good times. Want to know what your first word was?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Prongs," said Sirius. "James was ever so proud about that. Course, it was Moony next, then Wormtail, except you said 'wurtel.' You never ever got the hang of Padfoot, much to my chagrin. Anyway, I think your Mum disapproved of that a bit."  
  
"Of what?"  
  
"Of the whole Marauding thing," said Sirius. "Between you and me, she was a bit like Hermione."  
  
"What ... a busybody?" asked Harry.  
  
"No, not like that," said Sirius. "Very proper. Course, once she'd had a few drinks she'd muck in with the rest of us. Gwyneth used to be able to put them away too. Four gin and tonics, followed by three vodkas ... neat, and then a Jack Daniels and Coke. She was still standing afterwards, too. That was on your Mum's hen night."  
  
"Bet Mum never ran off with a Slytherin though," said Harry, stubbornly.  
  
"I can't say that ever happened," said Sirius. "How do you feel about that?"  
  
"Hermione? That's over," said Harry. "She's turned into Draco's patsy, that's what it is."  
  
"Draco seems an amenable enough lad," said Sirius. "For a Slytherin anyway."  
  
"You don't know him then," said Harry. "Sirius ... you know ... about the other day."  
  
"Which day is in question?" asked Sirius.  
  
"When you ... had a chat with me," Harry went on.  
  
"That ... sorry, forget about it," said Sirius. "It was rather stupid of me. I was never any good at sex."  
  
Harry preferred not to think about that. "Yeah, anyway," he said. "I, kind of, well, lied a bit."  
  
"You have been ..."  
  
"No, no, shut up a minute. Listen. I ... I do think I fancy Hermione."  
  
"You do?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"Well, that's ... yeah, I guess that's okay," said Sirius.  
  
"Only, I made a bit of an arse of myself," said Harry. "Now we're not speaking and she's seeing Draco and it's all gone horribly wrong."  
  
"I fail to see how I can help."  
  
Harry turned to look at Sirius. He knew he shouldn't really be saying this ... all things considered ... this man was a teacher, but also the closest thing, the closest link he had to the life he could have lead ... a normal life, with normal, well, magical things. He didn't think he had ever felt closer to his parents than when Sirius was around. He had to say.  
  
"Well ... help me out here," said Harry. "Godfather me already."  
  
"You saw what an idiot I made of myself when I tried to do the birds and bees thing," said Sirius, dangling his feet over the parapet and kicking the stones with the heels of his shoes. "I'm not sure if anything I've got to say would be any help."  
  
"I've got nobody left," moped Harry. "Ron's gone ... Hermione's gone ... going. She hit me across the face for Christ's sake!"  
  
"That I do know," said Sirius. "When a woman does that, that's a very bad sign."  
  
"Did anyone ever do it to you?" asked Harry.  
  
"Only once," said Sirius. "I was nineteen. It was during one of our frequent break ups ... Gwyneth and I, that is."  
  
"You broke up?"  
  
"Oh, around fifty times," said Sirius. "Usually I'd just say the wrong thing at the wrong time. We always got back together again," he stared up into the sky. High overhead a plane was flying, on its way to warmer climes ... lights winking through the night. "She was a good girl, my Gwyneth."  
  
"So what about Hermione?"  
  
"You want to get with her? Well, you could try getting in with her friends," said Sirius. "Corny advice, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Rule out making friends with Draco ... he's ... well, the name says it all doesn't it?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "You could try talking to Hermione again," he caught the look on Harry's face. "You don't want to do that, do you?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Well, that's the only way to go about doing it. I'm going to give you some advice that my Dad once gave to me. You can't sit around on your bum all day waiting for the world to come to you. Because it doesn't work like that, and it never has done, and it never ever will do. The only people that get what they want in this stupid world are the ones that get up and go out and do stuff ... and they talk to people, whatever the consequences might be, because they've learned that if they don't do that ... some day they might miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime. The point is you will not know whether or not you are missing out until after the event has passed ... and even then it won't be obvious, because it will have happened to somebody else, one of the people who wasn't sitting around moping about how miserable they were. So go and talk to them ... one day you might be naming your kids after Draco, or asking him to be your best man. Your Dad came up to me on the train our first day at Hogwarts. If he hadn't have done... God knows ... your existence might depend on that one moment," he noticed Harry was staring at him. "Anyway ... that's what I think."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry. "That was very deep."  
  
"Very deep indeed," said Sirius, staring off into space again. "I feel duty bound to apologise."  
  
************  
  
"I feel moved to tears," said Hermione.  
  
Draco glanced around them. "This is wrong," he said. "I don't think we should be listening to them like this. We should go."  
  
"He's right, though," said Hermione, craning slightly to get a better view.  
  
"What ... you think we'll be best buddies one of these days?" asked Draco.   
  
"I know I said I'd like for us to get on, but I have limits."  
  
"Don't be silly," chided Hermione. "Anyway, your Father said your mission was to get ..."  
  
"Stuff the mission," said Draco. "That was then ... this is now. I've blown the whistle on it. No more of that stuff for me."  
  
"But you were meant to get close to Harry," said Hermione. "You ended up with me. Did you misread your 'Evil Instructional Handbook' or something?"  
  
Draco grinned. "If I did, I'm bloody glad I did," he said. "Imagine what people would have said if I'd wound up in a full blown relationship with Harry."  
  
"I think you might look cute together," said Hermione. "I can just imagine it."  
  
"Got a thing for gay men, have we?" asked Draco. "You're going to be sorely disappointed in that regard," he added. "Though I won't deny I'm a handsome son of a bitch."  
  
"Shut up," said Hermione.  
  
"Anyway, he's nearly a foot shorter than me ... for Harry, puberty is something that happens to everyone else," said Draco.  
  
In spite of herself, Hermione laughed. Harry and Sirius, who were still sitting on the parapet, stargazing, did not notice. "He could use a stool," she said. "Or a copy of the Yellow Pages."  
  
"What?"  
  
"If he wanted to kiss you," said Hermione.  
  
"That's a horrible thing to say," said Draco. "Of course I'd lift him up, the poor little bugger."  
  
Sirius was pointing to one of the stars in the night sky ... tracing the pinpricks of light that were Orion's belt with his finger.  
  
"Just our luck, though," said Hermione.  
  
"What?"  
  
"We come up here for a bit of rest and relaxation, and we find ourselves in the middle of a bloody male bonding session," said Hermione.  
  
"I bet you'd like to see me male bonding," said Draco. "Perhaps you should take your mind off things a bit."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Kiss me again?"  
  
************  
  
When Ron came round, he was quite alone, and in complete darkness. And the noise ... such a noise he had never heard. It seemed to be coming from right next to him. It sounded like ... like a diesel engine, running at full tilt very close by. He tried to shift his weight, but his hands were bound behind his back with what felt like duct tape. Something sharp was digging into the small of his back. He tried shouting ... but of course, with the noise there was no chance of anybody hearing him.  
  
After what seemed like hours, the engine noise died away. Ron lay quite still, curled up in whatever little space he had been squeezed into. He could hear doors slamming outside, and the crunching of feet on stony ground. Orders being shouted hurriedly in a language that was not English. Then the noises died away ... and all that he could hear was the ticking of the engine cooling.  
  
"Hello!" he shouted.  
  
And then. "Is anybody there?"  
  
Silence ... utter and complete. He tried to lie back in his tiny space, but there was a massive bruise on his head and try as he might, he was unable to get comfortable.  
  
Again he waited. After a few moments he heard the footsteps coming back, and more talking ... this time an English voice.  
  
"How many of them?"  
  
Ron did not hear the reply.  
  
"And the train?"  
  
Again, the reply was unintelligible.  
  
"Excellent. Well ... open the box then."  
  
There was the sound of keys rattling, and then somebody opened the box ... light flooded in to Ron's tiny space. He felt hands grasping his sore body, and the next thing he knew, he had been hauled out of the space and set to his feet. He took stock of his surroundings. He was in some sort of courtyard ... much like the one at Hogwarts. There were tall, leaded windows on the walls, and back the way they had come, an enormous gatehouse with a portcullis that was even now being lowered. The surface of the courtyard was cobbled, and looking around, Ron could see exactly what his transport had been ... a very large, ex-army truck. There were two Land Rovers parked nearby ... one of them had a machine gun mounted on the back, and bore Cyrillic writing on the sides.  
  
"Well, well, Romulus. We have done well."  
  
Ron found himself surrounded by men ... leastways he assumed they were men, each wearing a heavy black cloak, and each one masked. Death Eaters.  
  
"What is your name, boy?" asked Romulus, taking a step closer to Ron.  
  
Ron spat on the ground at the man's feet, which was probably not the most sensible thing he could have done.  
  
"We have a tough one," said Romulus, turning to the others. "He will take longer to break. Vladimir is going to enjoy this," he leant down so close to Ron that his breath, which stank of raw onions, fish and garlic, could be felt on the boy's face. "I suggest you talk sooner rather than later," he said. "Vladimir is, of course, expertly skilled in keeping people alive as long as possible. He needs to be, of course. He served in Afghanistan."  
  
Some of the other Death Eaters were chortling.  
  
"Take him inside," said Romulus. "We may as well get moving on him straight away."  
  
Something hard and cold jabbed itself into Ron's back, and he looked round to find somebody was poking a fearsome looking gun into his back.  
  
"I warn you, I'm armed too," said Ron, sounding braver than he felt.  
  
"Oh, we knew that," said Romulus ... he reached into the folds of his cloak, and withdrew Ron's old wand. "That's why we took the liberty of removing this from your possession," with that, he snapped it clean in half. Little purple stars shot everywhere, fizzing as they went. "Now march ... at the double."  
  
Ron was led inside what he presumed was the castle ... across a great hall lined with suits of armour, unrecognisable military standards, many of which bore dragon insignia and portraits of moustachioed noblemen. Then he was lead down a narrow, dank flight of stairs to another room. He could hear the dripping of water from the ceiling, and hanging from the walls were braziers burning with bright green flames. There was a single chair in the centre of the room.  
  
"Sit," said Romulus, "and wait."  
  
Ron sat down on the chair. Not daring to look round, he could hear the sound of receding footsteps. He stared straight ahead. There was a large iron door set into the wall. It opened very slowly, and a rush of intense heat caught Ron and made him gasp.  
  
Standing in the now open portal was what looked like a man ... robed like the others, but there the resemblance ended, for a figure less like a man Ron could not recall ever having seen. In the flickering candlelight, he could see quite clearly ... the skin on his left hand was gnarled, twisted, a fearsome red, horrifically burned. His hair, had once been thick and blond, but now grew in clumps. His face ... half his face had been blown clean off. There was a gaping hole where his nose should have been, and one eye was gone ... leaving just the bony socket.  
  
Sensing Ron's disgust, the man stepped forwards. He walked with a terrible limp ... almost dragging his left leg along behind him.  
  
"Not a pretty sight," he rasped, in broken, heavily accented English. "Once, boy, I was the pride of my parents and my country. Now look at me. I am reduced to working as a torturer for wizards. Nobody else would take me in after the war. Even then, they shut me away in my dungeon."  
  
Ron could barely speak, nor could he take his eyes off the man's face.  
  
"My name is Vladimir Koschenko," said the man. "I shall tell you my tale before we begin work. The year is 1979 ... and in this year the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan. I was a humble truck driver in the Leningrad regiment. For four years I worked as a driver ... ferrying supplies to our brave troops. However, the Afghanis were stronger than we had ever anticipated ... they were being armed and aided by the Americans. One day, as I drove through a high mountain pass near Kabul ... my truck laden with ammunition, I was hit with an American Stinger missile, fired by some Afghan fanatic. That was what did this to me. Western imperialism."  
  
"It wasn't my fault," said Ron.  
  
"I know it wasn't," said Koschenko. "But I do not care for such niceties. Come with me, boy ... I want to show you something."  
  
Ron rose from the seat, and followed the man into the next room. An array of instruments was hanging from the walls. On one side of the room, a giant open fireplace, blazing away, smoke pouring up the chimney, with what looked like some sort of spit, of the kind used for roasting meat. There was some type of iron coffin standing against the wall, and right in the centre of the room was a large wooden table, with manacles and shackles attached to it with links of iron chain. Koschenko bade Ron sit down on the table. He walked slowly around him, sizing him up, observing him with a critical eye, all the while humming a mournful Russian peasant song, mouthing under his breath the words, which Ron could not understand. Finally he stopped his pacing, and called something out in Russian.  
  
All was silence. Then, he paced over to the other side of the room, and took what looked like a long iron poker off the wall. He came back over to Ron.  
  
"They tell me I am to torture you," said Koschenko, waving his poker in front of Ron's face. "This is no great wrench for me ... I performed many such acts in Afghanistan. Often on those even younger than yourself."  
  
He raised the poker high up, and smashed it hard into Ron's face. He heard a crack as his nose broke, and a fearsome crunching as his front teeth were knocked out. Ron screamed, but Koschenko slapped his hand over Ron's mouth.   
  
He could taste blood. He swallowed hard, and looked up, eyes wide with primal fear, into Koschenko's single eye.  
  
"What do you want me to tell you?" he gasped.  
  
"Me ... nothing," said Koschenko. "I was told merely to ensure you suffered pain of a magnitude beyond comprehension."  
  
He slammed the poker hard down on Ron's kneecaps. There was a sickening, horrifying crack. Ron clutched violently at his broken legs, keeled over, and fell to the floor. He retched; he could taste bile, and vomited over the floor.  
  
Koschenko bent down next to his prone form. "Disgusting boy," he whispered.   
  
"What is it to be?" he asked, delivering a sharp kick in the ribs.   
  
"Electrical flex ... whips and chains. Maybe even the Iron Maiden ... she can be most vicious."  
  
"I can't move," breathed Ron.  
  
"That was the point ... stupid boy," hissed Koschenko. "How do you like your new look?" he asked, kneeling down, and rolling up the legs of Ron's jeans. The sight that met his eyes ... his knees were twisted beyond recognition, black with bruising, and blood trickled down his shins from where the left ankle bone had broken through the surface of the skin.   
  
Ron screamed, and fainted dead away.  
  
************  
  
The headline read 'Express Train Destroyed In Attack: Dark Mark Seen.'   
  
Hermione opened the paper. There was a photo of the burnt out wreckage, with Ministry wizards, looking strange wearing hard hats and luminous vests over their work robes, crawling all over the scene.  
  
'The Edinburgh to London Express was attacked last night by Death Eaters with the loss of twenty lives. Only one survivor, a pupil of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has so far been found, and is currently being cared for at St Mungo's by her family. The girl is not yet in a position to reveal details of this appalling tragedy. It appears she was travelling home with her three brothers, whose bodies have not yet been found. The rest of the passengers were killed when the train was blown up. Details at this time remain sketchy, although it appears that the masked gang put a tree trunk across the line to stop the train, and then set about butchering the passengers and crew. The Dark Mark was shot into the sky shortly afterwards. This dastardly attack must surely mark the definite return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a fact that has been most blatant for some time now. Minister Fudge has so far chosen to ignore these allegations. This paper urges him to reconsider his position, which has now led to the loss of twenty one lives this year. Fudge would be wise to seek counsel from Albus Dumbledore, headmas..."  
  
Hermione closed the paper in disgust. "You horrible, fucking hypocrites," she snarled. She looked around. Harry was sitting at the other end of the table ... looking quite alone without his usual red headed guard of honour, and only, by the looks of things, barely tolerating Colin Creevey, who was trying to talk to him about Quidditch. Hermione didn't know whether she should try and tell him or not. She had no way of knowing if he was already aware that his friends were dead. She had no idea how he would react. But she knew, however, that she needed to talk to him.  
  
************  
  
Draco was wandering casually down to Herbology when he heard it. He was passing by the rhododendron garden, and to his surprise, he could hear the sound of someone weeping. At first thinking it was merely a figment of his imagination, he walked on, but then stopped. What if it wasn't? He wasn't much of a soft touch for tears, but all the same. He pushed open the gate, and stepped inside.  
  
The garden appeared deserted. Draco looked around. Perhaps he had been hearing things. Must be going slightly nuts, he thought. Then, to his shock, he saw where the noise had been coming from.  
  
It was Harry, sitting on a bench at the other end of the garden, his head covered by his robes, a torn copy of the Prophet lying on the gravel path at his feet. Draco was in something of a dilemma. It would be cruel of him to walk off without Harry knowing he had seen, but it would be nasty to let him know that he had been seen.  
  
Slowly, he approached the bench.  
  
Harry looked up at the sound of his approach, and if his face could have fallen any lower, it no doubt would have done. "What the hell do you want?" he asked.  
  
"Shouldn't you be in Divination?" asked Draco.  
  
Harry nodded. "How do you know my timetable?"  
  
"I don't, I just know Hermione has Arithmancy now," said Draco.   
  
"What's up ... mind if I sit down?"  
  
"Get fucked," snarled Harry.  
  
Draco sat down anyway. Harry looked up. "I'm sorry ... which part of that didn't you understand?"  
  
"Tell me what's up?" asked Draco.  
  
"You'll just laugh at me ... then you'll go running off to that whore, Hermione, and tell her how stupid and pathetic I am ... then you can both have a good laugh. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"  
  
"Not especially," said Draco. "Harry ... Hermione and I ... well, yeah, we are an item, but I don't want her to lose her friends over it. Perhaps I might even gain some new ones."  
  
"What do you need friends for? All you do is take advantage of them."  
  
"That hurts," said Draco. "That really hurts. You know, Harry ... I'm a lot like you."  
  
Harry snorted in indignation, but there was something about what Draco was saying that made him want to stay sitting there. Otherwise he would have stormed off somewhere else ... but he just could not do that.  
  
"Go on?" he asked.  
  
"We both, neither of us fit in," said Draco. "You're the saviour of the Light Side, famous ... trust me, in a few years you'll be mobbed by groupies wherever you go. I'm ... well, I'm, completely socially inept."  
  
"You seemed to be doing all right for yourself," said Harry.  
  
"Sure, I can dance, and go to dinners and stuff ... but that isn't what I want to be doing. I realised that just a few days ago. That's how I'm socially inept."  
  
"What do you want to do then? Hang about outside the chippy, smoking and drinking Tizer like Muggle kids?" asked Harry.  
  
"If that's what it takes," said Draco. "I want to be normal ... I don't want to be starched up in nasty dinner suits and dragged around boring functions. I want to be normal."  
  
"Better hope your Dad isn't listening," said Harry.  
  
"I don't give a toss what he thinks," said Draco.  
  
Harry was slightly astonished. "How come?"  
  
Draco turned to Harry. "Do you promise you won't tell anybody this? Not even Ron ... not anybody?"  
  
"Promise," said Harry.  
  
"He used to punish me," said Draco.  
  
Harry shrugged. "That's nothing," he said. "So did my Uncle Vernon ... and he's horrible."  
  
"No, I mean like ... really punish me," said Draco. Harry could feel goose bumps rising all over his body. "Harry ... I don't know if you'll want to know this, but he used to beat me ... badly."  
  
He turned to look at Harry, who was staring at him open-mouthed. "Is something wrong?"  
  
"Me too," said Harry  
  
"Your Uncle?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Not often ... just when he was really angry ... usually he'd just," both boys spoke at once, Draco echoing Harry's words. "Usually he'd just lock me up or not feed me for a day or something."  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Harry.  
  
"No, me too," said Draco.  
  
An awkward silence descended between the two of them. Finally, Draco spoke again. "What's it like, living with Muggles?"  
  
"Like ... it depends on the Muggles," said Harry. "My family disapproved of it ... I mean, magic terribly. They never spoke to my parents when they were alive, unless they could absolutely not avoid it."  
  
"Yeah, but what's it like?"  
  
"I don't know," said Harry. "It's, very normal, I guess."  
  
"Normal like this is normal for me?"  
  
"I suppose. I mean, we had TV and stuff."  
  
"I've never seen TV," said Draco. "Well, once actually. I had a friend at Primary School who was half-blood. I went over to his house once, and we watched cartoons."  
  
"Which ones?"  
  
Draco shrugged. "Can't remember," he said. "Anyway, my Father found out he wasn't a pure blood wizard, so he stopped me from seeing him anymore, and then he had a right go at me."  
  
"That's horrid," said Harry.  
  
"Huh, tell me about it."  
  
"Draco?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Thanks," said Harry. "You helped."  
  
Draco shook his head. "I don't want you and Hermione to fight just because of me," he said. "I never wanted anything like that to happen."  
  
Harry smiled. "I've been sitting here most of the morning," he said.   
  
"Did you read the papers?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Has something awful happened?"  
  
Harry nodded. "You know Ron, Fred, George and Ginny went home yesterday?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"Well ... they ... the train was attacked. I think they might be dead," said Harry.  
  
Draco felt an overwhelming urge to touch him and comfort him ... but he was not sure how Harry would react. They had only been talking a few minutes. Sure, ground had been covered, but not nearly enough to mean they could consider themselves friends. He was aware that this only really counted as a preliminary peace talk. "Harry?"  
  
"I think my friends are dead," he repeated, slowly.  
  
Draco put his hand on Harry's shoulder. To his surprise, Harry didn't react.  
  
"I'm sorry," breathed Draco. "I had ... I had no idea."  
  
Harry looked as though he was trying to choke back another flood of tears.  
  
"Harry," whispered Draco. "Don't ever be ashamed of crying. I thought I had to be ... and look where I ended up."  
  
"It isn't that," said Harry. "It's just ... you aren't my friend ... I don't know why I'm even talking to you."  
  
"Well, we have a lot in common," said Draco quietly.  
  
"What ... both abused kids?" asked Harry. "Yeah, I guess. But, I've been so horrid."  
  
"Horrid?"  
  
"You're really helping me out here. I think you're even being genuine. But you're making me feel really guilty ... I've been so horrid to you, and I never knew anything about you. I was judging you on what I saw ... I wasn't giving you a chance."  
  
"Harry, I don't care," said Draco. Tears were trickling down Harry's face. "I was hateful too. I understand that now."  
  
Harry was holding his head in his hands. The tears were coming thick and fast now. "I'm sorry," he gasped, in between sobs.  
  
"Is there anything I can do?" asked Draco.  
  
Harry looked up. "Yes," he said. "I think ... I think I ought really to speak with Hermione now."  
  
************  
  
Chaldean was feeling very ill. For a start, the spicy foreign food did not agree with him, and he was certain he was coming down with some sort of stomach bug. Cursing the name of Lucius Malfoy, he rose from his bed, and walked over to the window. The truck, which had disappeared at some point during the night, was now returned, and parked in the courtyard. Looking down, he could see two brown jute sacks in the bed of the truck. He wondered vaguely what they were.  
  
He dressed quickly, pulling on the lightest robe he could find in the wardrobe ... even though it was mid-September, the heat was as bad as the hottest English summer.  
  
Once again, the castle seemed to be deserted. He wandered downstairs to the refectory to see if he couldn't find anything to eat. A few of the estate workers were sitting at the long trestle tables, drinking small, lethally strong cups of coffee and occasionally nibbling at the corners of little pastries. Chaldean, who did not know any of them by name, or even by sight, sat down on his own. He didn't speak Russian either, so of course he had no idea what any of them were saying.  
  
"Mr. Chaldean!" a voice called. He turned round in his chair to see Al Tamimi striding across the room towards him.  
  
Chaldean got to his feet. "What news from England?" he asked.  
  
Al Tamimi removed his hat, and placed it reverentially on the table, as though it were some priceless religious relic. Chaldean noticed he was frowning. "We have not heard from Mr. Malfoy for some days," he said. "He was meant to arrive here this morning, to supervise the Animation Process, but something seems to have come up."  
  
"The Animation Process? I don't understand?" said Chaldean. "I assumed we were here to inspect the crop?"  
  
"The crop is fine," said Al Tamimi, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "It is being harvested as we speak. As soon as these lazy curs have finished with breakfast of course."  
  
"A hard day's work in the fields with their scythes ought to straighten them out," said Chaldean.  
  
Al Tamimi gave him a quizzical look. "They will not be harvesting it with scythes. I do not know how such things are done in England, but here we use only the latest Muggle technology."  
  
"I assumed ... I assumed Malfoy's hatred of all things non-magical would extend to equipment."  
  
Al Tamimi shook his head. "Malfoy is indeed a Magical Supremacist, as I believe such men are known nowadays ... however he is not so stupid that he does not recognise the value of Muggle farming methods. All such methods are used here. You saw the hydroponics lab yesterday, did you not?"  
  
Chaldean nodded.  
  
"That is where the seeds are germinated," said Al Tamimi. "Before planting, you understand ... they must be cared for well if they are to flourish outdoors."  
  
Chaldean realised Al Tamimi was successfully managing to throw several very large red herrings into the conversation. He held up his hands indignantly. "Just a minute ... you said we were here to supervise the Animation Process."  
  
"Indeed I did."  
  
"Malfoy is moving into movie making?"  
  
Al Tamimi glared at him. "The Animation Process," he said. "It is long and arduous and one should never make light of it. Only this morning the subjects arrived..."  
  
"Subjects?"  
  
"Three young men ... taken in their prime ... who are to give their essence ... their very being to the process. They are superb specimens. Would you like to see them?"  
  
"First, tell me what the Animation Process is."  
  
"Very well."  
  
Chaldean found himself being led along corridors and down flights of steps. The drop in temperature told him they were getting further and further underground. There was water dripping from the ceilings, and the candles were burning with a green flame ... the fumes smelled horrible.  
  
"You must excuse the smell," said Al Tamimi, as he unhooked another set of heavy, jangling keys from his belt, and opened yet another door. "There is rather a lot of raw magic in the air down here. It could be very dangerous if somebody were to set it off. That is why we insist all wands are left in this ante room."  
  
He pushed open the door, revealing a very small, dimly lit room, with another door directly opposite, and a large and ornately carved cupboard standing against the wall. Al Tamimi opened the cupboard. Inside were wands of every shape, size and description, each glowing with a faint aura of magic. The atmosphere felt charged with energy. Slowly, Chaldean withdrew his wand from the folds of his cloak, and deposited it in the cupboard with the others. Al Tamimi closed the door.  
  
"Did you not bring a wand?" asked Chaldean.  
  
"I have no need of one," was the reply. He unlocked the other door, which swung open without a squeak.  
  
"Won't you step into our parlour?"  
  
Chaldean gasped as he stepped into the room. They were standing in what looked like a giant reading room, of the kind found at universities, on some sort of metal gantry. The walls were lined with shelves of books, more books than he had ever seen in one place before. They stretched up to a ceiling so far up it was almost invisible ... but through which a shaft of golden sunlight was falling, illuminated a circle of floor down below. Chaldean could hear footsteps echoing on the metal floors, and in the dim light, could make out people climbing the flights of stairs that connected them. Then he looked down at the floor.  
  
There were two very large stone slabs, much like operating tables, raised off the ground. Two human figures had been clamped to these slabs ... though whether or not they were dead was very hard to tell. They were certainly not moving.  
  
"Come," said Al Tamimi. "I want you to meet some people."  
  
Chaldean followed him down the flight of steps to the bottom of the room, where the slabs were. Now he had a better view of the bodies ... they were both dirty, bloodied and battered, wearing only ragged shorts, but they appeared to be breathing ... their chests were rising and falling. But ... surely ...  
  
"Surely those are children," hissed Chaldean.  
  
"But of course. The blood of an adult is useless to us."  
  
"You're planning to kill them?"  
  
"They are as good as dead already," said Al Tamimi, as though he was tired of telling people this. "In any case they will be no loss. They were street children from Yerevan ... it was not hard for us to lure them here. We have about fifty in the dungeon downstairs, taken from various places around the world, and as I said, three more arrived this morning ... English, I do believe."  
  
Chaldean tried not to look horrified. "I am still mystified as to why Malfoy wanted me to see this."  
  
"It is simple," said Al Tamimi. "Buried under this castle are many thousands of Malfoy ancestors, most of them rotted away to nothing, just bones, and in some cases, not even bones. However they are there ... and legend has it there is more."  
  
"More meaning?"  
  
"The most powerful Dark Wizard this world, or any other has ever known," said Al Tamimi. "He was the stuff of legends ...a deity to my people. His name in Russian was Salzarov Ivanisovich, in Arabic Salasash Al Sharmina. You know him better as Salazar Slytherin."  
  
"Impossible ... Slytherin is buried in Transylvania!"  
  
Al Tamimi shook his head. "Sadly," he said, "sorely mistaken. He is buried here. We have seen the chamber ... but we cannot yet open it. There is something missing."  
  
"What is missing?"  
  
"The blood of his heir," said Al Tamimi. "Engraved upon the door to his tomb are words in an ancient runic alphabet which our archaeologists have only this week succeeded in decoding. To open the chamber, the blood of Slytherin's one true heir must be placed in the mouth of the dragon gargoyle."  
  
"Slytherin's heir?"  
  
"Alas, the bloodlines are so polluted," said Al Tamimi. "It is impossible to tell who it is. It could be anybody. The Slytherin family were very fecund. It is quite by chance that the Malfoys happen to be related to him."  
  
"Malfoy is the heir?"  
  
"Malfoy is," said Al Tamimi. "As far as we can make out ... the heir, or rather, one of many. There is, however, one thing."  
  
"What might that be?"  
  
"The runes speak thus ... the blood must be taken from the four chambers of the heart itself, where it is in its cleanest and purest state... for this the heart must be cut out of the body ... and it must still be beating."  
  
"Malfoy would never ..."  
  
"Malfoy does not intend to," said Al Tamimi. "He intends to use his son."  
  
"But ... surely he would not," began Chaldean. "Draco is so dear to him."  
  
"Not Draco," said Al Tamimi, who appeared to be fighting hard to contain laughter. "You believe a man such as Malfoy has only one son? He has five ... five healthy sons. It is the blood of the youngest we shall be using. His name is Omar ... the son of his second wife. A seven year old."  
  
"I see ... then what?"  
  
"After the chamber has been opened, we shall retrieve what earthly remains Slytherin has seen fit to bequeath us, and we shall use them."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"The Animation Process ... the reincarnation ... if you will, of every ancestor that has ever lived. There are hundreds upon thousands of them ... each a descendant of Slytherin. An army of the dead. Imagine the spectacle ... an army of the dead ... that cannot be killed."  
  
Chaldean's eyes were alive with excitement. "How can such a thing be possible?" he breathed. "Magic cannot bring people back from the dead? Can it?"  
  
"You would believe so, would you not ... and doubtless," chuckled Al Tamimi. "Doubtless the vast majority of our kind would believe such a thing impossible. However Lucius Malfoy has always had a penchant for proving the impossible possible. We have been working on the process for ten long years ... and we have finally perfected it. We call it the Lazarus Potion. When reanimated, and under our control with the use of the Dragon's Blood, the Dracaena, they will be unstoppable ... invincible ... the Dark Side shall return from the shadows to take the due that has been owed to it for so long. After all ... a dead man cannot be killed again!"  
  
************  
  
When Ron next awoke, his situation appeared to have changed yet again. He was lying on what appeared to be a sheepskin rug, covering a bed so soft he felt he could have stayed there forever. He sat up, hauling himself up by his elbows, astonished at how little pain he was still feeling. Even his legs had stopped hurting. His clothes had been taken away and somebody had clothed him instead in a white muslin nightshirt. His watch had gone too, so he had no idea how long he'd been there. He looked around the room. In size and shape it was much like his dormitory at Hogwarts. But there the resemblance ended. Covering the walls were luxurious furs and animal skins, zebra, tigers, leopards, bears and foxes. There were two tribal hunting shields and a spear, and in the centre of the room, a table that looked to have been made out of an elephant's foot. Over by one of the windows, there were two very large, overstuffed leather armchairs. Whoever owned the place certainly wasn't into animal rights. There was a knock on the door.  
  
"Come in," said Ron.  
  
The door swung open, revealing a young-looking man, probably in his mid twenties, wearing a smart, blue jacket and crisp, pressed trousers. He was bearing a tray.  
  
"We thought you might be hungry, Ronald," said the man, stepping into the room. He set the tray down on the table. There was a silver tureen, a covered plate, two crystal goblets and a very large, ornate jug filled with what looked like wine.  
  
"Thank you," said Ron, quietly.  
  
"It was nothing," said the man. "My name is Leonid. If there is anything you should desire whilst you are with us. You have only to operate the bell pull beside your bed."  
  
"Wait," said Ron. "Can you tell me what happened? To the other man?"  
  
"The other man?"  
  
"Koschenko."  
  
"There is nobody with that name here. You must be thinking of someone else. I must leave you now. There are other guests to be attended to," he bowed smartly, and withdrew from the room.  
  
Ron sat up, put his feet down on the floor, and tried to stand up. To his surprise, he did not collapse to the floor in indescribable agony... indeed, his legs seemed as solid as they usually did. He looked down at his feet, which were hidden by the long gown, and lifted it up slowly. The bruising was all gone ... his legs were not broken. It was as though nothing had happened. Gingerly, he put his hand to his mouth. The two teeth that had been knocked out were still there. Was he dreaming? He didn't think so. It certainly felt real.  
  
He took a couple of steps over to the tray, and sat down on one of the cushions scattered around the table. Slowly, he lifted the lid of the plate, and was amazed to discover it was merely breakfast ... fried. Egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, beans, a grilled tomato and a fried slice ... just as he always had it. Somewhat pleased by this discovery, he reached out and lifted the lid from the tureen. It was not a tureen ... it was a fruit bowl. There were apples, bananas, pears, peaches, oranges, and some strange red fruit he could not identify. He picked up the jug, poured a little of the liquid into one of the goblets, and tasted it. It was not wine. Indeed ... it seemed oddly tasteless. He set the goblet down hurriedly. It might very well be drugged or something. Should he even touch the rest of the food? His stomach was saying 'yes' ... but his head was telling him to approach it with caution. He heard footsteps outside, and then somebody knocked at his door again.  
  
"Who is it?" called Ron.  
  
Someone outside gave a whoop of joy, and the door burst open, revealing Fred and George. Like Ron, they were both clothed in bizarre white gowns. Ron nearly fainted again.  
  
"You okay?" asked George.  
  
"I think I am ... now," said Ron, standing up. Fred enveloped him in a bear hug.  
  
"We were so worried about you."  
  
"Relax, I'm fine," said Ron, wriggling free. "They gave you these robes too, did they?"  
  
"The colour's good on you" said Fred. "It's very sexy actually."  
  
"Be quiet."  
  
George was pointing to the table. "They brought him food!" he exclaimed.   
  
"How come we didn't get any?"  
  
"We're probably not important enough," said Fred. "Do you mind if we filch a spot of your nosh?"  
  
"Go ahead," said Ron. "I haven't touched a crumb."  
  
George bent down, and picked up one of the bananas. He peeled it, and stuffed it almost whole into his mouth, making little noises of ecstatic pleasure as he did so. "Haven't eaten since that stick of gum on the train," he said, bits of banana cascading from his mouth as he spoke.  
  
"Don't go overboard," said Ron. "Might be poison."  
  
George spat the rest of the banana out. "Jesus, Ron ... how long were you going to let me eat this thing?"  
  
"He could be right," said Fred. "We'd better not take anything unless we're sure it's safe."  
  
"You sound just like Percy."  
  
"I shall bear a mighty penance," said Fred.  
  
Ron padded over to the window, and peered out of it. They appeared to be high up in some sort of tower. Down below he could see the courtyard, the truck that had brought them in still parked there, now flanked by several men in cloaks, standing motionless, guarding it.  
  
The castle complex itself seemed vast. There were towers galore, some towering up to the heavens ... some, like theirs, quite small. There were several tall minarets. Surrounding the castle on what seemed like every side was a deep gorge, rocky, treacherous. There was a single bridge spanning it ... but it looked in need of desperate repair ... it had once been a thing of beauty, but now there were quite obviously massive chunks of stone missing from it, and the whole edifice must have been held up by magic. The road that crossed the bridge wound up the far side of the nearest mountain, then vanished into a tunnel near the summit.  
  
"Any idea where we are?" asked George, joining him at the window. "Whoa!" he gasped, as he took in the view. "That is something else!"  
  
"Picturesque as our surroundings are," said Fred. "It does somewhat pale into insignificance when faced with our situation ... which is that we are prisoners, and we appear to be dressed up as virgin sacrifices. I do hope we all qualify in that respect?"  
  
"We should find something to have sex with," said George. "They can't sacrifice us if we don't meet the specifications."  
  
"An excellent idea, dear brother of mine," exclaimed Fred. "You hold Ron down then ... I'll go first."  
  
Ron was still standing at the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flurry of movement. Somebody was watching him from the nearest tower.  
  
"Ssh, hold it a minute," he said.  
  
"Hold what exactly?"  
  
"There was somebody watching us," Ron pointed to the other tower.   
  
Whoever it was had disappeared.  
  
"Ooh, an audience," said Fred.  
  
"Shut up about the damn sex for just one minute can't you?" snapped Ron. "Besides," he added. " ... I'm underage."   
  
Fred joined him at the window. "I don't see anybody," he said. "Was it our saviour?"  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Someone to come and rescue us, silly," said George. "Preferably some lovely blonde lady in leather boots who will give us chocolates."  
  
"Yeah, let us know if you spot Hermione and Harry flying past," said Fred.  
  
"Hey," he gave a start. "What's that?"  
  
There was something flying towards the castle.  
  
"It doesn't look much like a broom," said Ron.  
  
"Whoever said it was? Listen, it has an engine ... must be a helicopter or something," said Fred.  
It was a helicopter. It flew close up to the tower, the sound of its rotors deafening in the still air, and hovered over the largest turret, before setting gently down. The rotors ceased whirling, and the door at the side slid open. Four men got out, each of them clad in identical black cloaks.  
  
They appeared to have been in the middle of a discussion, although from such a distance, neither boy had any idea what they were talking about. They disappeared inside. A couple of mechanics were busying themselves around the aircraft.  
  
"Well, very interesting," said Fred, sarcastically. "Someone just landed in a helicopter."  
  
Ron wasn't so sure. He was convinced one of them had looked in his direction, and although he had not been able to see his face, he had felt a shiver running down his spine. He turned away hurriedly.  
  
************  
  
"Come on Harry ... if mine and Alicia's unique brand of scatological humour can't cheer you up, then we might as well give up."  
  
"So give up," said Harry, pointedly.  
  
Alicia patted him on the shoulder. "She'll turn up," she said. "I've never known Hermione to be late for anything."  
  
"She's not coming," said Harry. "We may as well go back to the Common Room ... it'll be a damn sight warmer there."  
  
"I dunno," said Katie, trying to sound enthusiastic for the fact that they were down by the lake in the fading light, with the temperature set to drop below freezing point very shortly. "I think it's quite romantic," she went on. "A meeting below the angry skies, next to a frozen, desolate lake. It would make a great plot for a film."  
  
"It needs to be summer," said Alicia, annoyed. "You need butterflies and little birds and that very proper kind of Englishwoman that only exists on celluloid ... you also need Hugh Grant rowing a boat."  
  
Katie shook her head. "I'm aiming for the bleak, pointless romance here," she said. "You're just trying to be fluffy."  
  
"I like being fluffy," huffed Alicia. "So sue me."  
  
"Can you two be quiet for one minute?" fumed Harry. "I think I hear voices."  
  
"Sorry Captain," said Katie. "We'll be good."  
  
Two people were walking arm in arm across the bridge ... one of them carrying a lantern, which as they drew closer, revealed them not to be Hermione and Draco, but Sirius and Doctor Jones.  
  
"They seem to be rather struck with each other, don't they," remarked Alicia.  
  
"Probably making up for lost time," Harry muttered.  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"Nothing," said Harry.  
  
Sirius had spotted them, and waved. "Shouldn't you three be indoors?" he called. "It's nearly dinnertime."  
  
"We're ... um, discussing tactics sir!" called Katie.  
  
"Tactics?"  
  
"For Quidditch ... with Harry!"  
  
Harry waved feebly.  
  
"Ah ... well, carry on then," Sirius and Doctor Jones continued on their way, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"She's a bloody Slytherin," said Katie. "What's a nice hunk like Mr. Wilmot doing with her?"  
  
Harry was somewhat shocked. "You like Mr. Wilmot?"  
  
"He's wonderful," said Katie. "I think I might have a crush on him ... which is annoying, as I thought I'd got over the Gilderoy Lockhart thing. Anyway, Doctor Jones is an absolute bitch."  
  
Harry nodded his agreement, even though he did not agree at all.  
  
Alicia was stamping her feet on the ground. "Where the bloody hell have they got to?" she asked, impatiently.  
  
They did not have long to wait. Harry heard a shout, and looked up. Hermione was coming down the path towards them, dragging behind her a hooded figure who was stumbling slightly as he walked.  
Harry turned.  
  
"We're here if you need moral support," said Katie.  
  
"Or if you just need to flatten Draco Malfoy," said Alicia. "We can be very good with our hands. In ... out, five seconds flat ... children for Draco out of the question."  
  
"That won't be necessary," said Harry. "Just chaperone me ... okay?"  
  
Draco had removed the hood of his cloak ... his hair was blowing in the gathering breeze. He said something to Hermione that none of them heard, and then pushed her forwards. Hermione threw a glance back at him ... he nodded, and she continued walking down the path towards Harry.  
  
"Step backwards," said Harry. Alicia and Katie shrugged, and took a few steps back away from him.  
Hermione, who appeared to be concentrating very hard on the ground, looked up ... her eyes looked mournful, even tearful. She managed a weak smile.   
  
Harry smiled too.  
  
"Hello," he said.  
  
Hermione shuffled her feet awkwardly. "Perhaps we should start again?" she said.  
  
Harry nodded. "I think that might be a good idea."  
  
"Apparently, Draco says he came to talk to you earlier?"  
  
Harry nodded again. "He found me," he said.  
  
"I'm sorry," smiled Hermione. "It can't have been pleasant."  
  
"We made our peace," said Harry. "I think I have something to say to you as well."  
  
"No ... I don't want tearful apologies," said Hermione. "I just want to speak to you again. I was ... I was being genuine in the Library ... I was trying to tell you the truth about Draco and I. And about ... how he'd stopped all that. How I helped him stop all that. He genuinely wants to make it up to you. You could say he's been de-programmed."  
  
Harry gave her a funny look. "We ... we have some things in common which we never knew about," he said. "I guess that helped a bit ... a lot."  
  
Hermione nodded. "Draco told me what you said," she said. "It makes me feel sick, knowing that."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Harry.  
  
"Don't be," said Hermione. "More people should speak up about that sort of thing. People like Lucius Malfoy, and your Uncle ... they deserve to be behind bars for doing that."  
  
Harry looked at the ground, he felt tearful, as though he was about to start crying again.  
  
"Was that the catalyst?" asked Hermione. Harry looked up in a hurry.  
  
"I suppose it was," he said. "Finding out we were both ... you know."  
  
Hermione nodded. "I know," she said.  
  
"Can we?"  
  
"I was going to ask the same," said Hermione. "Only if you'd like to. If you can't find it in your heart to forgive me ... I'd be disappointed... but I'd understand. I've been shitty towards you."  
  
"I've been a bit of a bastard too," said Harry. Hermione, however, was shaking her head.  
  
"No, it was me," she said. "How I could ever have thought the way I did ... that you wouldn't react the way you did. Blimey, I just never stopped to think how it must look. Draco just ... swept me off my feet."  
  
"Don't dump him on my account," said Harry. "Just, be friends with me too."  
  
"I will," said Hermione. "Draco, too?"  
  
"If he'd like," said Harry. "I guess ... we could compare bruises."  
  
"Harry ... I'm truly, truly sorry for what I did to you."  
  
Harry found he didn't need, or didn't want, to hear that. "Stop there," he said. "I don't want apologies either. You just make me feel guilty."  
  
Hermione looked up. "I guess that makes us quits then," she said.  
  
Harry held out his hand for her to shake, but she did not take it ... instead, she flung her arms around him, and the next thing, was weeping over his shoulder. Harry couldn't help himself. He tried to blink to stop himself, but could not. He put his head on Hermione's shoulder, she had just washed her hair ... he could smell it. For a moment, he held her tight, listening to her sobs.  
  
Draco looked to Alicia and Katie.  
  
"Barking," he said to himself. The Gryffindor girls were shaking their heads, and the next thing he knew, were hugging each other and crying as well. Draco turned away, unable to cope with so much emotional distress, and sat down on the ground, not caring that the saturated earth was soaking his robes. He watched them in the fading light ... and was pleased.  
  
************  
  
Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand, was not pleased. He had arrived at the estate to find everything seemingly in disarray ... the date of the sacrifice had been put back ... Al Tamimi had told him ... new blood had arrived that very day, and Jasmine was refusing to co-operate and hand over Omar. Then he had found out that Romulus and his cronies had been out in the community again, and had not only blown up a train, but brought home three more children ... something he had expressly forbidden them to do. He called Romulus up to his study straight away, and had spent hours berating him for his stupidity.  
  
"What were you thinking ... going back to England? You could have been caught ... anybody could have seen you!"  
  
Romulus' reply had been pathetic in the extreme, and so he had been sent downstairs to pay a visit to Vladimir Koschenko and his incredible vibrating buzz saw. Doubtless, thought Malfoy, as he put his signature to the papers evicting yet another Muggle family from his expanding property, he was even now being tended for in the medical wing. Malfoy did not like to see his henchmen walking wounded ... it gave out a bad impression ... and so he employed a team of the very best magical doctors to fix up the victims afterwards.  
  
To top it all, Chaldean seemed to have vanished ... and Voldemort would certainly not be pleased to learn of this. He had left earlier in the day on a tour of the plantations, evidently shaken up by something ... Malfoy presumed he had been shown the Animation Chamber, a suspicion Al Tamimi had been happy to confirm.  
  
"That is to be kept secret until the day of the sacrifice!" he had ranted. "I want it to be perfect for Draco's birthday!"  
  
Sighing, he picked up the next load of papers. Business in Naxcivan seemed to mount faster than he could deal with it. This one was a letter from a village priest. He screwed it up and threw it away without reading it. Underneath that was a pile of correspondence from a Texan oil baron who seemed anxious to buy a share of the company's oil exploration business. Malfoy read it through twice, before adding it to the 'things to burn' pile. Then there was a letter from the government.  
  
'Dear Mr Malfoy,  
  
It has been brought to our attention that your business interests in Azerbaijan have expanded by more than 500% in the last two fiscal years. Thus you are now considered eligible for entry into our Capital Protection Scheme. Under the terms of the Scheme your company, Malfoy Incorporated Industries, will be considered for generous tax breaks, and of course, further business opportunities in the Trans-Caucasus region, including Armenia, Georgia, Russia and the Ukraine. The Scheme has already brought generous returns for many companies in the region, and we are delighted to be able extend this offer to you. Should you have any queries, you may contact me at the above address. I hope you will give this matter your full consideration.  
  
Yours, with respect.  
  
Dimitri Poliakoff.  
  
Department of Industry.'  
  
Malfoy smiled ... finally.  
  
A knock on the door disturbed him. "Come!" he barked ... the angry tone of his voice making it clear he had no wish to be disturbed.  
  
It was Chaldean. Malfoy got to his feet, and shook the man's hand.  
  
"I was wondering when you'd be coming back Master," said Malfoy. "Was your tour of the plantations satisfactory?"  
  
"The plantations were a beauty to behold," said Chaldean. "How much is there?"  
  
"Enough to keep all Europe stoned for a month," said Malfoy. "It should have a street value of approximately, eight and a half million Galleons. That's twelve million dollars."  
  
"You please me, Malfoy," said Chaldean. "May I sit down?"  
  
"I understand you were shown the Animation Chamber," said Malfoy. "You should not have been."  
  
"My respectful apologies," said Chaldean. "It is, however, an enterprise of which I believe you should be proud. You truly believe you can raise the dead?"  
  
"I know I can," said Malfoy. "Imagine it Master ... wouldn't it be an incredible sight?"  
  
"Incredible indeed," said Chaldean. "When do we begin?"  
  
"I must first inspect the children," said Malfoy. "Their blood must be fresh and untainted. Then we must decide which ones we are to use, so that they might be separated and cleansed. Then I must get my hands on Omar."  
  
"He is not here?"  
  
"He lives with his Mother in Baku," said Malfoy. "She is being stubborn, resistant. I will not tolerate this. I have sent men to collect the boy tonight."  
  
"What of Draco?"  
  
"He arrives to claim his inheritance in two days time," said Malfoy. "Provided my plans are not once more upset."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Dumbledore, the decrepit fool, will not allow Draco to leave his sight. The boy is protected day and night. He will come round once he sees what glories exist in his name ... what has been done to further him. He will be initiated on his birthday, which falls in three days time."  
  
"What about Potter? The plan is dependent on Potter."  
  
Malfoy looked at the floor. "The scheme has failed," he said. "We take both boys by force. Already my men are arriving in Hogsmeade."  
  
"And what of Voldemort?"  
  
"I have already contacted Voldemort," said Malfoy. "I spoke with him only yesterday. He believes me ... he is more stupid than he appears. He will arrive tomorrow. Then we shall have him, and then the Dark Side shall be united once more."  
  
Chaldean looked satisfied. "As long as we have Potter," he said. "Our victory is assured."  
  
"Let us drink then ... to victory ... to your triumph," Malfoy unscrewed the top off a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky, and poured them two generous measures.  
  
"To my triumph," said Chaldean, holding his glass on high.  
  
************  
  
Leonid, if that was his name, did not seem to show a flicker of emotion on finding Fred and George in Ron's room ... indeed, it was almost as though he expected it. Nor did he seem surprised that they had not touched the food. Instead, he smiled indulgently at them, and returned shortly, bearing an even more impressive spread, before bidding them a good night.  
  
Ron, who by this time was so hungry he would have eaten anything that moved, made a grab for the food, but was stopped by George.  
  
"Like we agreed," he said. "It might be poison."  
  
"I couldn't give a fuck one way or the other," said Ron. "I'm hungry. Now let go of me."  
  
George did, and both boys watched him as he lifted the lids from the plates.  
  
"Well, they're making an effort," he said.  
  
"What is it?" asked Fred.  
  
"Looks like roast beef, with Yorkshire pudding," said Ron. "There are potatoes and carrots and such. And would you look at that gravy. It looks like Mum's."  
  
It did smell good ... and they were very hungry.  
  
"You don't think we could ... just a little?" asked Fred.  
  
"Why not more?" asked George.  
  
************  
  
Harry sat next to Hermione at dinner for the first time in days. The other Gryffindors, apart, of course, from Katie and Alicia, looked at them both in stunned silence.  
  
"They will keep staring," said Harry. "But hey, at least you know what it's like to be famous."  
  
"I didn't ever intend on being famous," said Hermione, scooping chips onto her plate.  
  
Harry drenched his cod in lemon juice. "I bet you did, once."  
  
"Once," said Hermione. "I saw a Duran Duran video when I was little ... and I wanted to be in their   
group."  
  
Harry smiled. "See ... told you so," he said, then continued, in a slightly more subdued voice. "I used to dream of being famous. But now ... now it's actually happened, I kind of get to thinking how much better it would have been if I wasn't."  
  
"You'd rather be living with the Dursleys?" asked Hermione. "The kind of people who think it's reasonable to lock children up for days for doing nothing?"  
  
"Well, be reasonable ... I did do something," said Harry. "I set a boa constrictor on Dudley."  
  
"Without realising you were doing it," said Hermione, spearing a limp chip with her fork, and dipping it in ketchup. "That's what matters ... at the end of the day."  
  
Harry shrugged. "Okay," he said. "So I take it back about wanting to go back to the Dursleys. One day though ... one day I'll get them.   
  
Sirius says he'll help me," he clapped his hand over his mouth. "Sorry, you didn't hear that," he said.  
  
"How is Sirius these days?" asked Hermione, a wicked grin spreading across her face that Harry had not noticed.  
  
"I wouldn't know," said Harry, looking the other way.  
  
"Harry ... I would," said Hermione. "He, I spoke to him. I know who he is."  
  
Harry turned back to her. "You're serious?"  
  
Hermione looked puzzled. "No ... I'm Hermione."  
  
"Hermione ..." Harry was staring at her over the top of his glasses in that very annoying way of his.  
  
Hermione nodded. "He caught me sneaking around after lights out," she omitted to say she had lost Harry his Invisibility Cloak.  
  
"I was wondering if anybody else knew," said Harry, grinning. "Xavier Wilmot was his Grandfather."  
  
"I didn't know that," said Hermione. "The Wilmots are in 'Magical Events of the 20th Century,' He ... You-Know-Who picked a lot of them off during the Seventies."  
  
Silence descended between them for a few moments as they tucked into their dinners. Finally, Hermione spoke again.  
  
"What about Ron?"  
  
"I think ... I don't know what I should think," said Harry. "The paper says Ginny is the only survivor. So I guess that means they're dead."  
  
"You seem to be taking it rather well," said Hermione.  
  
Harry shook his head. "Give it time to sink in," he said. "I expect, I expect I'll ... well, I had, Draco must have told you how he found me."  
  
Hermione shook her head.  
  
"I skipped Divination this morning," said Harry. "I just couldn't face it ... not after reading that newspaper. Draco found me in one of the gardens.   
  
I just wanted to be alone ... to let it, to let it out, if you catch my meaning?"  
  
"I do," said Hermione. "So you had a good cry? That helps. I remember when my Grandmother died. It, well, this won't be much help to you ... but it gets better."  
  
"I expect it probably does," said Harry, stoically. "But I don't see that happening for a while."  
  
"At least you aren't beating the floor and wailing," said Hermione.  
  
"I feel I should be," said Harry. "I feel guilty because I'm not crying for them. I feel like I should be transported with fits of Mediterranean passion. But I'm not, I'm too bloody British for that."  
  
"Sod us," said Hermione. "We're basically pathetic, aren't we?"  
  
Harry nodded. "How do you feel about it?" he said.  
  
"I don't know," said Hermione. "I can't say I was friends with Ron when he left ... and that's what hurts me more. I know I didn't make my peace with him ... before he, before he died."  
  
"That's not good," said Harry.  
  
"Tell me about it," said Hermione. "It feels horrible. It makes me feel so guilty, too. We knew each other ... we knew each other well, damn it, we were friends, even though we hadn't been speaking to one another lately. And we parted, not as friends. That shouldn't have happened."  
  
"It wasn't your fault," said Harry.  
  
"Yes, it was," said Hermione. "If I hadn't run off with Draco."  
  
"Then if anybody is to blame, it's Draco," said Harry. "I don't blame him either. You ... you both filled me in pretty much. I didn't understand how hard it must have been for him. I feel pretty cut up about that as well, you know?"  
  
Hermione nodded. "You weren't to know," she said. "The whole point of the scheme was so that you didn't know what was happening."  
  
"Thanks," said Harry. "That's helpful. But ... Ron was my first proper friend. I feel, kind of lost without him being around."  
  
"You will feel that way," said Hermione, she could see the look on   
  
Harry's face again ... whatever he had been saying about Mediterranean grief was probably about to be completely refuted. He had that look to his eyes, that set to his jaw ... the one that Draco got ... the exact same one. In fact, looking at Harry now, struggling to control his emotions ... he looked so much like Draco that it was scary. She was suddenly repulsed. She did not want to be there ... to have to do it yet again. But she couldn't just up and leave.  
  
Next thing she knew ... Harry had dissolved, he slumped forwards over the table, his floppy fringe brushing against his food. Tears pouring down his face. It seemed, to Hermione, as though he had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders ... and that all the events of the past week had just overflowed. She couldn't help herself either. She coughed ... felt that warm, prickly feeling at the back of the throat.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she breathed. She put her arms around Harry. "I'm so, so sorry."  
  
She closed her eyes against the flood.  
  
************  
  
Later that evening, after Harry had spent several hours lying on his bed with Hermione and Sirius in attendance, crying until there was nothing left inside him, Hermione sneaked out to try and find Draco. They had made plans to meet up at the top of the tower, as they had done the previous evening, but with the turn that events had taken that day, she was by no means certain that Draco would even think to turn up. She waited until as late as was decent, until after Harry had been put to bed, Sirius remaining by his bedside, comforting him, and then slipped away without a word to anybody.  
  
She wasn't expecting to find anybody there, but to her surprise, Draco was standing at the parapet, looking at the sky, the wind whipping his heavy robes and blowing his hair in all directions at once.  
  
He turned round at the sound of her approach. She gave him a wan smile.  
  
"I didn't think you'd come," he said. "I was going to give you a couple more minutes, then I was going to go to bed."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I was with Harry. I think it all just finally ... hit home, you know?"  
  
Draco nodded. "I don't understand it," he said. "But I think I know what you mean."  
  
"That's good."  
  
Draco smiled, then said. "How is Harry now? He looked pretty cut up from where I was sitting."  
  
Hermione sighed, sat down next to him on the parapet. Once again the moon was riding high, only tonight it was partially obscured by the clouds that went skimming across the darkened sky like pebbles, skimming across a stream.  
  
"It was awful," said Hermione. "It sounded like he'd never cried before, never properly anyway. It sounded like he'd been keeping everything bad that's ever happened to him bottled up for the last fifteen years."  
  
"Not good," said Draco. "I'm no shrink, but not good at all."  
  
Hermione shook her head. "He scared me," she said. "Siri ... Mr. Wilmot had to lock the others out of the dormitory so that we could try and calm him down. Just when we thought we'd got him settled, off he goes again. He seems to be in mourning for the world, not just himself."  
  
"Don't think of it as odd," said Draco. "He's got a lot of mourning to do. I mean, what can a baby do when its parents die? It doesn't know, does it? I bet he wasn't even aware anything was happening."  
  
Hermione had never really thought of Harry as having much of a childhood beyond that he had passed at Hogwarts. She had never considered that there had been people who had genuinely loved him, and would have cared for him. He should have been a proper little wizard ... learning to fly brooms as a five year old, casting basic spells at six ... but nothing had worked out the way anybody had planned it to. Harry, of course, had not planned it at all.  
  
"That's what scares me," said Draco.  
  
Hermione came back to her senses with a jolt. "Sorry ... I was miles away."  
  
"You could have fooled me," said Draco. "No ... I was saying, it's that fact that scares me ... that he couldn't have known what was happening to him. I bet he was really happy too. Then suddenly ... it's all so horribly unfair."  
  
"I would have liked to have met his parents," said Hermione. "They sound like they were nice people."  
  
"Father always said they got what was coming to them," said Draco. "I don't think they ever really got on."  
  
"Were they at Hogwarts together?" asked Hermione.  
  
"No ... my parents are eight years older ... they would have just left," he said.  
  
"What House were they in?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Need you really ask?" said Draco. "Father was a Slytherin ... Mother ... Mother wasn't. She was a Ravenclaw. Funny that. I only found out when I was looking at old photos. She was a Prefect, too."  
  
"How did they fall in love?" asked Hermione.  
  
"I don't know," said Draco. "Why would I know that?"  
  
"All kids ... well, it's just something most parents tell their kids," said   
  
Hermione. "My Mum and Dad met at their Graduation Ball."  
  
"My parents never told me how they met," said Draco. "Father is a very ... closed in man ... he doesn't like to talk if it doesn't suit him."  
  
"I can imagine."  
  
"Stupid sod has his head rammed so far up his own arse, it's a miracle he hasn't turned himself inside out," said Draco.  
  
Hermione snuggled against him, revelling in the warmth of his body.   
  
Draco put his arm around her to steady her.  
  
"Tell me about your childhood," said Draco, after a couple of minutes had passed.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"I just kind of realised ... you know most of my intimate little secrets now," said Draco. "You know all about me ... and in relative terms, I barely know you at all."  
  
"Well," said Hermione. "I can tell you whatever it is you want to hear ... my birthday is September 19th 1979."  
  
"That's six days time."  
  
Hermione smiled. "I was born in Reading ... and I've lived in Marlow all my life."  
  
"Where's Marlow?" asked Draco.  
  
"Little town, next to the Thames," said Hermione. "Not far from Windsor."  
  
"I know Windsor," said Draco. "My Father once took me to the castle ... I must have been about four."  
  
"I've never been," said Hermione. "Anyway ... I went to school in Marlow, and then I was down to go to an all girl's school in Surrey, when I got my letter."  
  
"What's it like?" asked Draco. "Being a witch, and not knowing it."  
  
"Well ... I never realised all the weird stuff I could do was magic," said Hermione. "But I guess, well, things just kept happening to me when I was a kid. I once fell in the Thames ... we were out walking along the towpath, and it must have been, oh, Boxing Day or something ... just after Christmas ... anyway, there had been a lot of rain, and the river was in full spate ... almost up to the top of the banks. It was pouring over the weir near my house. I was walking ahead of my parents and their friends who were staying over for the holidays. I got too close to the edge, tripped over a tree root, and fell in the river."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"It was ... as if some hand grabbed me," said Hermione. "Next thing I know, I'm about to go over the weir to a messy and exciting death... then I'm standing back on dry land, dripping wet of course, but not hurt at all. Nobody ever worked out what had happened to me."  
  
Draco grinned. "Sweet story," he said.  
  
"Now your turn."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I've told you a sweet story ... now you tell me one about you. I bet you were ever so sweet as a little boy, really."  
  
Draco was smiling. "There was one time," he said. "I had a nanny when I was little, and she quite often took me out when Mother and Father were away, or up in London or something. Once she took me into Chipping Sodbury ... the Muggle town near where I live, and we went into an old second-hand bookshop there. I remember it as being very dark and musty, and you know what old books smell like?"  
  
Hermione nodded.  
  
"It smelled like that ... it's a nice smell ... I like it. She's off at the counter buying up all these old books. I don't know, I suppose she was some sort of collector, and she left me alone in one of the aisles. Remember I was about five, and I was really short as a kid. So these shelves are just towering either side of me. Then I spotted a picture book."  
  
"What book was it?" asked Hermione.  
  
Draco shrugged. "It had a picture of a teddy bear on the spine," he said.   
  
"It was obviously some Muggle kid's book that they'd tired of. So I tried to get it. It was about double my height, but I worked out I could use the other shelves as steps."  
  
"I think I can see what's coming," said Hermione.  
  
"Yeah ... too right, the whole thing collapsed, and I got buried under a heap of books," said Draco.  
  
"Then what happened?"  
  
"Well, I got dragged out of that place by my ears ... and I never did get my book. Thing was," said Draco. "I cried so much she didn't dare tell my parents. She was afraid they'd sack her for taking me out amongst Muggles.   
  
They never did find out. She had to buy me a giant ice cream in a café too."  
  
Hermione was giggling. "You see," she said. "You were happy sometimes."  
  
Draco smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I suppose I was."  
  
************  
  
Sirius sat beside Harry's bed until the boy fell asleep, occasionally wiping perspiration from his forehead with tissue paper. Finally, he nodded off, and his breathing became shallower.  
  
"Perhaps I'm getting too fatherly," said Sirius to himself, quietly, because Neville, Dean and Seamus were also in the room sleeping. The hangings had been drawn around Ron's bed as a mark of respect.  
  
"This shouldn't be happening to me," he went on. "I don't know why you're putting me through this, Harry," he brushed a stray lock of hair out of the boy's eyes. Harry barely stirred. "It really isn't fair," he added.  
  
Harry moaned something, which sounded like, "Padfoot," but probably wasn't.   
  
Sirius grinned anyway.  
  
"We could have done this whenever I came over to visit," said Sirius, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "I would have liked to have come and visited. I reckon you'd have liked it too. I could have taught you to play Quidditch. You probably wouldn't have turned out as good as you are though."  
  
With a start, he realized that he still had moments aplenty to spend with Harry. Just because he'd managed to miss the first fourteen years ... didn't mean they couldn't still have these moments. There was plenty of time left ... neither of them was going to die anytime soon. Once he'd got his name cleared ... as of course he would ... after all, what else could this be but a hiccup of justice? He could spend as much time as he liked with his Godson, as he knew James would have wanted him to do.  
  
What scared him was how easily the moment he was enjoying now could have been taken from any point in Harry's life ... the child sleeping peacefully, with him, Sirius, watching over ... perhaps after a night's babysitting whilst James and Lily went out to rediscover their love life. Perhaps there would have been other, smaller Potters to contend with. Perhaps there would have been little Blacks for them to play with. He tried, without success, to imagine that Harry was ten, or eight, or even six, and that they were in the house in Godric's Hollow. That he had just got Harry off to sleep, and that any second now he would be hearing the sound of the key in the lock downstairs, and slightly tipsy laughter ... and then he would get on his motorbike and fly away home, and there would be birthdays and Christmases and long, hot summer evenings when the patio was decked with fairy lights ... real, magical ones of course, and the smoke from the barbecue and the kids running around, allowed to stay up late just this once. Maybe they would even have holidayed together.  
  
"You'd have been a proper little wizard," said Sirius. "It would have been great ... I promise you that, Harry."  
  
He looked at his watch; it was coming up to midnight. He leant down, and planted a soft kiss on   
Harry's forehead. Then he straightened up.   
  
"Goodnight kid," he whispered. "Pleasant dreams."  
  
So doing, he got up, and walked over to the dormitory door. As he stood, poised to open it, he thought he sensed another presence in the room, and he turned back. He could see Harry's face, illuminated by the moonlight pouring in through the windows. The presence vanished as quickly as it had come, but Sirius knew who it had been ... and he suspected who it was often came up here to see Harry. He was suddenly overcome with a terrible, overwhelming sadness. He looked up to the ceiling.  
  
"Christ, Prongs ... you know I'm not up to this. Why did you have to fucking die on me?"  
  
A/N  
  
Worryingly, I managed to have myself in tears during the writing of this part. Well, as always, thank you so, so much for all the reviews. I ought to thank Cassandra Claire at this point, who gave me the 'Evil Instructional Handbook' line in a review. I really hope you don't mind me using it. Also Rave ... write my dear, why aren't you writing??? The world needs more Pazzie! Inspiring Author, Sanna, Keith ... who made a good point in a review last time. Sure, people do make up charges of child abuse ... (specially in the UK with the current paedophile fiasco) however my feeling is that it would be boring if all the characters were perfectly informed on every single social issue, which is why I chose to make Dr. Jones a bit of an ignoramus on that point. Do remember that the opinions expressed are not always mine, but my interpretation of how the character would think. Don't feel I'm getting at you, you made a valid point! Loved the Ali G thing by the way, but FFN was playing silly buggers and wouldn't let me review, so here's your review now. The interview cracked me up!  
  
Who else, ooh, Charmed, you nitpicker you! Was Alicia in the 6th form? I wasn't sure, surely she would still be there now if she was in Fred and George's year in GoF? Not sure if you are British or American, but do remember that in the UK, we have two years in the sixth year, there is no such thing as seventh year, just Lower and Upper Sixth, which I guess correspond to 11th and 12th Grade in the States. Private schools use a different system anyway, and JKR uses the private school system in HP. Wizard clocks, can't remember writing that bit, it was probably a valid comment, so I'll let that past. Glad you seem to be enjoying it! Thanks for constructive criticism without a nasty flame attached! More people ... um, Kayara likes getting mentioned in A/N's, so gets another mention, Pantalaimon, magical little me, Elyssa, Sherry, Dendraica, Lara ... I sense an obsession with evil developing here, Cassie Lee, Tara, Dr Branford ... a hurried name change there for some reason, and Eskalia ... ooh, a new reviewer ... welcome on board! And of course, a million thank yous to my lovely beta readers Viola and Karina, who both did a brilliant hatchet job on this part, despite the fact that my British spelling apparently crashed their spell checkers! More virtual hugs to everyone! What a long A/N! I can still get away with thanking everyone because I only ever get a quarter of the reviews of Draco Sinister (her Draco is threatening my Draco ... help) and so don't have as many people to get through, even so, I think I might be developing repetitive strain injury here, so will stop annoying you all and go away now. Happy Thanksgiving for Thursday. PS ... review.  
  
  



	9. The Turncoat

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
Another instalment coming up to brighten up this miserable old world in which we live ... most of the characters are JKR's, apart from the ones that aren't.  
  
PART NINE. THE TURNCOAT.  
  
They came silently ... wands concealed within their billowing cloaks of deepest black, stealing across the castle lawns ... unseen by human eyes ... unchecked by authority. Now at the gatehouse ... now within the courtyard, and now within the castle itself. They moved as one body, one unit, one silent footfall on the hard stone floors, they seemed to glide, as if suspended upon air.  
  
They cast no shadows in the flickering candlelight.  
  
************  
  
Sirius, who was just leaving the dormitories after staying up to comfort Harry, stopped dead in his tracks halfway across the Gryffindor Common Room. Something was happening ... he did not know what, but he could sense it within him. Something was happening, something bad.  
  
He heard footsteps behind him ... turned, to be confronted by three cloaked men, each wearing a featureless white mask. Their breathing sounded raspy and laboured.  
  
"What the fuck?"  
  
"Sirius Black," said one of them his voice was harsh and grating ... he sounded almost like a snake. "We thought we had killed you. We thought we had disposed of you."  
  
"I don't know what you mean," said Sirius. "My name is Wilmot, Xavier Wilmot. I've never even heard of Sirius Black."  
  
The man chuckled. "I do not believe you for one second," he said. "My name is William Avery. Perhaps you have heard of me?"  
  
"You went to Azkaban. You ... you killed thirty Muggles. December 1979, wasn't it?"  
  
"December the fifteenth, to be precise. And yes ... I spent some time in Azkaban," said Avery. "But now I am a changed man ... and I have come for what is ours."  
  
"What do you want with me?" asked Sirius.  
  
"We do not want you. Although our Master will be most interested to hear of your continued existence. For many years, the Dark Side has sought to reclaim what it has lost. We want our power back, and for that, we need one thing. This is what we are here to collect."  
  
Sirius glanced about the Common Room. The dying embers in the fireplace cast the scene in an orange glow. If he ran quickly, he could make the door before Avery did.  
  
"We need the blood of your Godson," hissed Avery, stepping closer to Sirius.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh yes ... Harry is instrumental to the entire plot. We must have him."  
  
Sirius clenched his fists. "Over my dead body," he said.  
  
"If needs be, yes," chuckled Avery. He had produced his wand and was twirling it round and round in his gloved hand, like a baton. "Harry Potter is the one remaining obstacle to us. With him out of the way ... there can be no further resistance. It will be over, everything you believe in will die with him on the altar. The sacrifice is planned for Saturday ... as the sun rises over our Master's fort, the knife will flash down. It will be quite an event. You should see the guest list."  
  
"You're not taking him," snarled Sirius. "I won't allow it."  
  
"Oh won't you?" asked Avery. "We shall see how you feel shortly. Our torturers can be very persuasive indeed. Who knows? It might even be possible for you to perform the sacrifice."  
  
Sirius gritted his teeth ... but before he could speak, someone had struck him hard on the back of the head, and then everything went black.  
  
***********  
  
Hermione, who was feeling very exposed without the familiar silvery reams of Harry's Invisibility Cloak covering her from head to toe, guarding against the attentions of Argus Filch, as she and Draco tiptoed carefully and very silently up the staircase that led to the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower.  
  
"Perhaps we should split," hissed Draco, as he scanned the corridor, making sure all was safe. It was not so much Filch they had to fear ... he was getting old and most of the students could reliably outrun him on a flat stretch. His cat, on the other hand, a mangy beast going by the name of Mrs Norris, was a force to be reckoned with. "I've got four floors to go down before I get to my dorm."  
  
"I thought," Hermione whispered back, "that you were going to be a gentleman, and escort me back to my room."  
  
"I forgot," said Draco. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Well," said Hermione. "I'll forgive you ... on one condition."  
  
"Name it," said Draco.  
  
"I would like a kiss," said Hermione. "Now, take me back to the Common Room."  
  
Slightly elated that they had both managed to sneak out at half past midnight, without the Invisibility Cloak, and without being spotted be Peeves or Filch, they ran up the last few steps to the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was fast asleep.  
  
"Bloody hell," cursed Hermione. "We'll have to wake her," she prodded the painting. The Fat Lady gave a snort, and rolled over, and then she sat up, blinking. Then she caught sight of them staring at her, and pulled the sheets up around her body.  
  
"What do you want?" she asked, in a tone of clear anger.  
  
Before Hermione could reply, another face had risen into view, that of a fat, bearded man with an unruly thatch of brown curly hair atop his head.  
  
"What's going on?" he asked, in a gruff voice.  
  
"Nothing, Godric," said the Fat Lady. "Go back to sleep."  
  
"The password's Diagon Alley," said Hermione. "Let us in, quick!"  
  
"Isn't he a Slytherin?" asked the Fat Lady in a scornful voice.  
  
"Yes, yes, I am ... just let us in," Draco waved plaintively at her. She scowled at him, but nonetheless, opened the door. They both scrambled in, and heard the door click shut behind them.  
  
Draco pinned Hermione against the wall.  
  
"We shouldn't be doing this here," he said. "It's not the done thing."  
  
"I bet you'd like me to be the done thing," smiled Hermione. "Now kiss me, you silly lump."  
  
Draco grinned ... took her in his arms. "You know," he whispered. "I rather like it when you get like this."  
  
"Stop ducking the issue, Draco," whispered Hermione. "And get on with it."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Draco leaned forwards, but as he did so, he felt a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly. Hermione let out a strangled cry, and Draco turned round. He was staring straight into a masked face. Two other cloaked figures were standing behind him.  
  
"Well, well, well," said the Death Eater. "We are quite the little Casanova, Draco, are we not?"  
  
Draco lashed out with his foot, catching the Death Eater a glancing blow on his shin. The man roared with pain, and momentarily released Draco, who fell to the floor. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the other man was too quick for him, and before he had a chance to run, he had been felled again, landing on his elbow. He screamed in pain.  
  
"Never ... ever, try that again," the Death Eater said.  
  
"I'm armed," said Draco, sounding braver than he felt. How had they got in? What was that slumped shape on the hearth?  
  
"Of course you are, Draco," said the Death Eater. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that we are not aware of that. However, resistance will be futile."  
  
Draco patted his robes ... he could feel the reassuring bulk of his wand in its familiar pocket against his chest. "Give me one good reason why?"  
  
"I'll give you several. One ... your Father will not be pleased with you."  
  
"I don't give a toss what he thinks," said Draco.  
  
The Death Eaters almost looked disappointed. "Come now, Draco," said the first one. "He has spent a long time preparing your birthday present. He wants you to come and see it. That is ... you could say ... why we are here."  
  
Draco snarled. "What's he got me this time?" he asked. "Human sacrifices or something?"  
  
"Hmm ... close. You can even bring your girlfriend with you. I am sure it would be most entertaining for her."  
  
"She is not my ..." began Draco ... before remembering that she was.  
  
"Now are you prepared to come quietly? Or do we have to force you both to obey us?"  
  
Hermione was clinging to Draco ... her face white with fear. "You leave him," she hissed. "He doesn't want to see his Father."  
  
"Sadly, Draco's wishes do not come into it," said the Death Eater. "Now be silent, girl, lest we be forced to punish you severely. Time is short, and we have other business here tonight."  
  
The same thought struck both Hermione and Draco at the same time. Did they mean Harry?  
  
"I repeat ... for the benefit of those too stupid to have been able to understand ... my previous question," the Death Eater went on, almost spitting the words at them, like a machine gun. "Are you going to come quietly? Or must you be forced?"  
  
"You'll have to fight me first," snapped Draco, scowling his most ferocious scowl.  
  
"Then so be it," said the Death Eater. The other two raised their wands in accordance with his action. "What shall it be? The Imperius Curse ... how about the Cruciatus Curse? Or shall we just stun you?"  
  
Draco slowly drew his wand out of his pocket. "A duel," he said. "You win ... I come quietly ... you lose, you leave this place, and tell my Father you have failed."  
  
"Truly he is his Father's son," said the Death Eater, turning to his comrades. "You have been raised well, Draco. It is a pity it must come to this ... but very well ... a duel it shall be."  
  
"Agreed," said Draco.  
  
The Death Eater bowed, stiffly, and Draco did the same ... neither for an instant taking their eyes off the other's wand.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
"I'll be fine, Hermione," said Draco, in a voice that clearly betrayed what he was really thinking.  
  
The Death Eater raised his wand ... but before Draco could do the same ... the Death Eater had yelled, "Serpensortia!"  
  
Just as it had done all those years ago, at the short lived and ill fated Duelling Club, a snake, long, green, and quite hideously ugly, burst from the end of the wand. It reared up before Draco ... who tried to step back, but found his way blocked by the wall. The snake hissed ... baring its long, pointed, yellow fangs ... and then struck. Draco felt burning pain in his chest ... heard Hermione screaming, and then knew nothing more.  
  
************  
  
Harry stirred in bed ... he turned over, twisting his covers around his body. Then he opened one eye.  
  
What was happening ... what had happened to wake him up? Usually he slept very soundly indeed. He untangled himself from his sheets ... which took a good few seconds, and sat up, groping blindly with his right hand for his glasses.  
  
The last thing he remembered, he had been falling asleep, and Sirius had been with him. Sirius had been there. Harry's hand made contact with his glasses, and he put them on. He cast his eyes around the darkened dormitory. Neville, Dean and Seamus were still sleeping.  
  
"Guys?"  
  
He had no idea how long he'd been asleep either. He checked his bedside clock, but it seemed to have stopped, the hands pointing to half past midnight.  
  
He threw off the covers, and climbed out of bed, stuffing his feet into his slippers and pulling on his dressing gown.  
  
A scream ... very close by, too. And what a scream. So high and piercing it made a cold shiver sweep up his spine.  
  
Something was badly wrong.  
  
He walked over to the door, and opened it, walked slowly down the stairs to the Common Room. He could hear footsteps crossing the room, and the noise of someone straining to lift something heavy.  
  
There were three men standing in the middle of the Common Room, right by the chairs he and Ron normally used to do homework in. At the sound of his footsteps, they turned in his direction, and Harry saw with a start of horror that one of them was holding Hermione in a tight grip ... his hand across her mouth. Hermione was wide eyed with fear. Harry's eyes travelled upwards, and he saw they were wearing those same, deathly white masks that they had worn when last he had encountered them. Harry's stomach lurched. Death Eaters  
  
Then one of them spoke. "Ah. You make it so easy for us, Harry. I was just about to send somebody up to the dormitory to collect you."  
  
Harry froze. "What do you want?" he asked.  
  
"Mmph mmph mph, Mmmphy!" cried Hermione, struggling in the man's grip. Harry now caught sight of two other bodies lying slumped on the floor. One of them the body of an unidentifiable man, on the hearth by the fire, and the other lying unconscious on the floor by the door. Harry could tell from the shock of silvery blond hair that this was Draco.  
  
Avery shook his head ... almost as though he was tired of explaining this to people. "We want you, Harry. Draco has failed his task. Now our Master is angry, and cries out for your blood."  
  
"Bugger off!"  
  
Avery took a step forwards. Harry was rooted to the spot, like a rabbit caught full on in a headlight beam. "I sense such a fearsome temper," he said. Harry found himself unable to move as Avery stepped right up to him, and ran his hand across his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way. "Our Master will be so pleased to see you. Who knows? He may even let you live. Now, Harry ... are you going to come quietly, or are we going to have to force the issue further?"  
  
Harry struggled free of Avery's grip on his shoulders. "No," he spat. "I'm staying here. You can go and get fucked, as far as I'm concerned!"  
  
"Mmmm ... mooooo, Mmmphy!"  
  
"That was the wrong answer, Harry. I'm sorry, but I rather think we are going to have to knock you out first."  
  
Before Harry could react, or run, or do anything at all, he had been struck hard across the head. He could taste blood in his mouth, and he cried out in pain as he reeled, clutching at one of the armchairs.  
  
"Oh dear ... we didn't much care for that, did we?" asked Avery. Harry could make out his blurred form peering closer. His eyesight seemed to be fading fast, and he collapsed to the floor. Something that felt very much like a steel capped boot kicked him hard in the ribs, winding him.  
  
He could feel Avery's hot, acid breath on his face ... it stank. "How are we enjoying ourselves now ... Harry?" a voice hissed in his ear. Harry tried to cover his face with his arms.  
  
"You should learn some respect," whispered Avery. Harry closed his eyes even tighter, and then his head exploded with pain as the man clouted him hard across the back of the skull. He blacked out.  
  
Avery bent down over the boy's unconscious form. "Take him," he said.  
  
************  
  
When next Harry awoke, he was lying on what appeared to be a large stone slab, his hands and feet in stirrups ... his pyjamas sweat-stained and smelling of stale vomit.  
  
He was utterly alone. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a rack of what looked like heavy, iron tools. The whole room smelled of dried blood, like a butcher's shop.  
  
He looked up, and then screamed, closing his eyes tight. Suspended in a gibbet hanging above him was a human skeleton.  
  
"Did we scare you, Potter?" a low, drawling voice asked. "I do hope so."  
  
"Excellent work, Malfoy," said a second voice. Harry opened his eyes again. There were two men now standing at the foot of his slab. He recognised one of them as Lucius Malfoy.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice quavering, unnaturally high.  
  
"Simple, my dear child," said Malfoy, stepping forwards, and stroking his head. "We want you to fight for us."  
  
Harry tried to struggle, but he was bound too tight.  
  
"I'd sooner die," he said.  
  
Malfoy leaned closer. "Admirable sentiments," he said. "See, Master? Such belief in his pathetic cause ... if such a boy had been my son what wonders I could have achieved. Instead, I am lumbered with a pathetic wretch who even now squalls for his Mother. Such ... is life."  
  
Harry was a little puzzled by this speech, but said nothing.  
  
"Harry, my dear boy. You will be fighting for what is right," said Malfoy. "You will be fighting the Dark Lord himself ... Voldemort. Even now my men are luring him to this castle."  
  
"Draco told me," said Harry. "I'm not doing your dirty work for you."  
  
"Oh ... but I rather think you will," said Malfoy. "Your friends' lives depend upon it. And besides ... has it not always been your dream to vanquish the world of the menace who took your parents from you?"  
  
Harry spat. "I'm not doing it for you," he said. "I'm doing it for myself."  
  
"Such selfishness, Harry ... and I had so hoped we could be friends," said Malfoy. "There is much we could do together. You, our Master Lord Chaldean here, and myself ... and Draco, of course. Think of the power you could wield. The nations you could destroy. Think of the ultimate glory, the banquets ... the riches and the women."  
  
"What are you offering me, exactly?" asked Harry. "Caviar and free sex?"  
  
"The world, Harry ... I am offering you the world."  
  
"I don't think so," said Harry.  
  
"We shall see how you feel about it another day," said Malfoy. "Our offer is so generous ... I feel certain you will accept it. Come, Harry ... I find this dungeon so distasteful ... and we have just finished preparing your ... bedroom."  
  
************  
  
Harry was shown into a suite of rooms that was luxuriously furnished. There was an antique fireplace, leather armchairs set around it, a man's heavy travelling cloak slung casually across the back of one of them. There was an old horned gramophone, and some records strewn across the surface of an expensive table by the window. There was a Tiffany lamp on the table. One whole wall was lined with bookcases, filled with heavy and important looking volumes. There was another door at the far end of the room ... his feet tapping on the polished, wooden floor, Harry walked over to the other door, taking care not to step on the beautiful Oriental rug, and opened the door cautiously. In this room ... there was a four poster bed standing in the middle of it, beautiful, damask hangings opening onto a bed that looked too comfortable to be allowed. Yet the whole room seemed somehow familiar to him ... and he wished he could place it.  
  
Harry walked slowly over to the bed, and stroked the covers with his hands. They were made of the finest silk.  
  
He went over to the French windows. Outside was an enormous balcony, affording views of towering mountains. Harry opened the doors, and stepped out onto it. There was a table laid with what looked like dinner for two ... crystal goblets, champagne on ice ... a selection of cold cuts, bowls of fruits and exquisitely prepared salads. There were even solid gold napkin rings. Harry picked up one of the spoons ... it reflected his face like a perfectly polished mirror.  
  
It was evidently quite late in the day, for the sun was starting to sink behind the distant peaks. Harry, feeling quite out of place and very poor in his now ragged pyjamas, walked over to the edge of the balcony, and peered down into a large courtyard. There were several trucks and cars parked there, but no sign of life. Directly ahead of him was a very tall tower, with windows set into it. Harry thought he could just make out a figure standing in one of the windows, but it disappeared before he could tell if it was real or not.  
  
He wandered back inside, wondering vaguely if they had left him some clothes as well. Noticing a door he had not yet tried, he opened it, and found himself, perhaps not surprisingly, in a dressing room. There was a table in the middle with a very expensive looking suit laid out on it, but Harry ignored it, and opened one of the wardrobes.  
  
What finery awaited him. There were long, velvet cloaks of every colour imaginable ... some trimmed with ermine ... others jewel encrusted ... and more ... silk cloaks, even leather ones, full dress robes. Fine shirts and trousers ... row upon row of neatly polished shoes. Harry gasped in awe, and took one of the silk cloaks off its hanger. He draped it around his shoulders, and tied the fastening around his neck. It fitted perfectly. He stepped back to look at himself in the mirror. Very flattering indeed. Was this really all for him?  
  
The pyjamas and cloak combo didn't really seem to work, in his opinion. He removed the cloak, and draped it over the back of a chair. There was a chest of drawers, which he pulled open. Had they thought of everything? Designer underwear, and new silk pyjamas, red, his favourite colour. He selected his attire with more care than he could ever remember having done before ... underwear, socks, just so. Then a pair of jet black trousers, with a shirt and tie to match ... he peeled off his pyjamas, and dressed in his new outfit, then surveyed himself once more in the mirror. He looked like some kind of Mafiosi.  
  
"Very chic," he said to himself. "A cloak is still needed."  
  
He opened the wardrobe door, and pulled out one of the cloaks. Black with gold trim ... it matched perfectly. He slipped his feet into a pair of shoes, combed his hair into place, and then walked back out into the bedroom, fighting the urge to strut.  
  
Someone was sitting on the balcony, admiring the view. Harry walked over to the doors and stepped out.  
  
He coughed. "Hello," he said.  
  
The woman ... whoever it was, stood up ... she was wearing a well fitted dress of midnight blue. She turned round, and Harry gasped in recognition.  
  
It was Hermione.  
  
************  
  
Draco, a gigantic towel wrapped several times around his waist, feeling much refreshed after his bath, replaced his razor in the little porcelain cup provided for that purpose, and stood back.  
  
"Not bad," he said to himself. A valet handed him a fluffy white towel, and he patted his face dry.  
  
"Will Master Draco be requiring aftershave?" the valet asked.  
  
"No, thanks, it makes my face sting," said Draco, handing him back the towel. "I wouldn't mind seeing Hermione now."  
  
"Alas," said the valet. "Miss Granger is otherwise engaged tonight. Tomorrow maybe ... you shall see her. Now ... your Father requires your presence in the dining room. You are to be presented to his honoured guests."  
  
"I'd rather not be," snarled Draco. "Can't I eat in my room?"  
  
"Your Father forbids it," said the concierge. "There are clothes laid out for you in your chamber. I will return to collect you in half an hour."  
  
He left the room, leaving Draco standing there, slightly confused. He wandered back out into his bedroom ... which was furnished in typical Malfoy distaste, ugly portraits of yet more ancestors ... these with distinctly Arabic looks to their faces, bearing scimitars. Over the fireplace, carved with a skull and bones motif, hung a picture of some battle or other. Unidentifiable men on horseback were charging other unidentifiable men on horseback, and both sides were doing a fairly good job of decapitating the other.  
  
Clothes were indeed set out for him. There was a set of dress robes, amongst the finest Draco had ever seen, made of brushed navy blue suede. He dressed hurriedly in front of the mirror. The robes had a very high collar, which made him look like some kind of vampire. He admired himself in the mirror.  
  
The rays of the setting sun were slanting in through his leaded windows ... he walked over, pushed open the door, and stepped out onto his balcony. So this was what Naxcivan looked like.  
  
Draco had, of course known for many years that his Father controlled vast estates in this region of the world, but he had never visited them before. His first view of the mountains, now glowing blood red as the sun sank beneath the ridge, fair took his breath away. It was stunning ... barren and wild ... yet the most beautiful terrain he could remember.  
  
The balcony overlooked the main courtyard that he and Hermione had been brought in through earlier. Looking down, he could see several vehicles parked there ... including one very large Soviet era Zil limousine and four Land Rovers. Draco scanned the courtyard. A little way below was another balcony, even larger than his, on which two people were sitting, dining. He couldn't tell who they were, but he wondered vaguely if his Father was trying to break into the hotel business. So ruminating, he went back inside, closing the door gently behind him. A bottle of lime cordial had been placed on a small table. He poured himself a glass, and drank gratefully. Then he wandered over to one of the bookcases.  
  
The bookcases were filled with fairly standard looking volumes of magical lore. They were heavy, thick leather books with titles embossed upon their spines in gold leaf. Draco selected a slim looking volume at random, and pulled it out of the bookcase. If he had been a Muggle, he would have been shocked to see a gold swastika on the front, but as it was, his brain barely noticed it. He opened the book on the first page.  
  
'Discourses on Inherent Magical Racial Superiority,' it read. It was by somebody called Rene Beauchamp, and someone had very carefully written a date above the name in black ink; 17th March 1950.  
  
Draco turned the page. It seemed innocuous stuff, but as he read further into the text, he began to feel sick ...  
  
'The point I made earlier on the false convictions of our kind under the orders of the Ministry in 1942 and 1943, is well illustrated by the case of Salazar Malfoy, a fellow of the Magical Society of Great Britain, who was condemned to Azkaban for murdering three half-blood families, and subsequently executed by hanging on June 21st 1945. Malfoy ...' Draco turned over hurriedly.  
  
'... shows us merely that half-blood families are the very worst of the polluted races, and must be destroyed at all costs. When we consider the actions of the Muggle Hitler, as we surely must, for he ..."  
  
He turned over again.  
  
'... death is too good for them. Such vile merchants would drive the Wizard race extinct within two generations. For all our sakes, the use of the killing curse, Avada Kedavra, must be legalized immediately ...'  
  
Draco flung the book to the floor ... it was pure, distilled hatred. It shook him to his core. Was that what his Father wanted for him? Was that his objective? Why else would a volume composed of such pestilential filth have been left in his room?  
  
"I have to get out of here," he breathed. He walked over to the door, and tried the handle. As he expected, the valet had locked him in. He tried banging on the door, but there was no answer.  
  
He turned round ... the entire room had suddenly taken on a disgusting, tainted quality. The walls seemed to be looming even higher, even closer than before. Panicking, he ran over to the other door, pushed it open, and stepped out onto the balcony, breathing heavily as fresh air washed into his lungs. Fighting the urge to retch, he walked over to the edge.  
  
******* *****  
  
"Black, wake up!"  
  
Avery kicked the man's sleeping form in the ribs. He was curled up in the corner of a tiny cell, sleeping on a pile of straw. The only furniture was a small, upright wooden chair, which looked most uncomfortable.  
  
"I said up!"  
  
Avery kicked again.  
  
Sirius opened one eye. "What the hell?" he moaned. "It feels like a fleet of trucks just ran over my head."  
  
"Yes, it will do," said Avery. "We would get you some painkillers, but being truly sadistic bastards, we simply cannot be bothered. Now get up. Your presence is required."  
  
Sirius got to his feet. "What do you want with me?" he asked. "I'm nothing ... I'm a complete nobody."  
  
Avery shook his head. "Au contraire," he said. "You are something, and you are, most certainly a somebody. Indeed, you are somebody very important to us. We have some old friends whom I am sure you would be very interested to meet. They are just about to start their dinner now. Would you care to join them?"  
  
"I'd sooner die," growled Sirius.  
  
"Yes ... our Master told us you might," said Avery. "Nevertheless, the invitation has been most cordially extended to you. It would be most unseemly of you to think to turn it down. After all ... it might be the last meal you'll get for days. It might be the last meal you'll get ever."  
  
Sirius snarled, but said nothing.  
  
"I take it we have a deal."  
  
"I'll need hot water and a shave," said Sirius. "Then clean clothes."  
  
"Out of the question. There is no time for delay. Do not be alarmed, Black ... our Master deems this to be treated as a very, ah, informal occasion. He is not expecting you to be dressed up in your finery."  
  
"Very well," said Sirius. "But I attend under duress."  
  
"Really? That makes no difference," said Avery. "Not in the great scheme of things, anyway. Follow me, if you please?"  
  
Sirius was led out of his cell, and along the corridor outside ... his mind was frantically ticking over, trying to memorise as much detail as it could. If it came to it, he might just have to fight his way out of here. They turned left, then right, then left again. A tall, hulking giant of a man stood in the corridor in front of them, holding open a heavy, iron barred door, beyond which was a staircase. Sirius followed Avery up the staircase, and they emerged in an enormous hall, bedecked with tapestries, paintings of suspicious looking men. There was a stained glass window overhead, with the rays of the setting sun pouring through it, casting the entire scene in a symphony of coloured lights.  
  
Avery led Sirius to another door, opened it, and ushered him in. This room was a lot smaller. There was an enormous table set right in the centre, with chairs all the way round, every one of them unoccupied. Avery indicated which chair was to be his, and Sirius sat down in it. It was a vast, throne like chair with huge arms carved into the shapes of eagles, and luxurious red cushions to sit on  
  
Avery turned away, muttered something, and a second later a roaring fire was blazing. Sirius noted with slight alarm that the room was windowless ... the only light came from the candelabra.  
  
"The others will be along shortly," said Avery. He wrapped his cloak around himself, and swept from the room.  
  
Sirius tapped his hands on the table impatiently. It was already laid ... fine crystal goblets, cutlery that appeared to be hewn from solid silver. There was no sign of any food however, though it suddenly struck him that he really was very hungry indeed.  
  
Somewhere, a gong sounded, and the huge double doors were once again thrust open.  
  
Three men walked in, all clad identically in black cloaks, though none of them were wearing masks.  
  
"Ah, Sirius Black joins us," said one of them. "It is so nice to meet you at last, Sirius. I do hope your journey here was acceptable."  
  
"Cut the crap," snapped Sirius, angrily. "What have you done with Harry?"  
  
"Harry is even now being looked after to the best of our capabilities," said the man who had spoken. "Now my dear sir ... do allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Lucius Malfoy ... you probably have already heard of me. This is our dear Lord and mentor, Artemis Chaldean, and this is the head of my little operation out here, Achmed Al Tamimi."  
  
"I am honoured," said Sirius, the tone of his voice betraying the fact that he did not mean what he said.  
  
The other men took seats opposite him. Malfoy removed his cloak ... he was wearing very stiff, formal dress robes underneath it. A minion scurried forwards to remove their cloaks. Chaldean, wearing an expression of cold, calculating nastiness, sat down, his arms folded.  
  
"So, Sirius Black," he said. "I am so glad we meet at last."  
  
"I take it you're a Death Eater too?" asked Sirius, scornfully.  
  
"A Death Eater. Dear sir, not I," said Chaldean, suppressing a smile. "I would have nothing to do with that strange sect. Neither would any of us here."  
  
Al Tamimi and Malfoy were both shaking their heads. "Such activities are the bane of our society, don't you agree, Sirius?"  
  
"Who was that ..." Sirius began, but Malfoy waved him to silence.  
  
"All will be revealed in due course," he said, smiling at Sirius. "In the meantime, won't you partake of some wine with us?"  
  
He clapped his hands, and the goblets filled themselves almost up to the brim. Sirius picked his glass up warily, and sniffed it ... it did appear to be wine.  
  
"A perfectly acceptable little vintage," said Malfoy, smiling mysteriously again. "Grown on my own vineyards. I own several, in Italy and Australia, and there is even one here. You wouldn't think it possible to grow good vines in these harsh lands, would you?"  
  
Sirius, who still had no idea where he was, shook his head. "Indeed not," he said.  
  
"I am so glad we agree," said Malfoy. "It makes conversation so much easier when all are in agreement."  
  
"Forgive me," began Sirius. "But I am still a trifle bewildered as to ..."  
  
Malfoy snapped his fingers. "Of course!" he roared, as though remembering something he had been meaning to say. "You will be wanting to know where you are. Well ... this is Naxcivan ... a backwater region of the Caucasian country of Azerbaijan. You are privileged to be here, Sirius ... until just four years ago, this whole area was closed to Westerners. After the fall of the Soviet bloc, I invested heavily in property in the region ... including this rather fine old castle, which once, long ago, belonged to my family. Previously, it was sequestered by the state. I have merely brought it back under our control. It is fine, don't you think?"  
  
"I haven't seen much of it," said Sirius, sipping his wine.  
  
"Well, trust me, it is a fine building," said Malfoy. "This little dining room is just one of many. Of course, if we were having a banquet, we would be using the Great Hall. However, tonight things are to be more informal than that. I like a more intimate dinner myself."  
  
The doors were opened again, and another, smaller figure walked in, and took a seat next to Sirius. Sirius turned to see whom it was, and with a shock, saw it was Draco.  
  
"Good evening, Father," said Draco. He turned to Chaldean, and said stiffly. "Master, I am honoured once again."  
  
"Indeed you are, boy," said Chaldean. "Tell me, Draco ... you have met our guest, Sirius Black, have you not?"  
  
Draco turned, and his jaw dropped a mile. "I had ... I had no idea that was who he was," he said.  
  
"You should be honoured, Draco," said Malfoy. "Few have had the privilege of dining with the man who caused the vanquishing of our hated enemies."  
  
Draco looked first to his Father, and then to Sirius. Sirius could tell from the expression on his face that the boy was undergoing some massive internal struggle ... fortunately the other men in the room had failed to notice this.  
  
"Indeed," said Draco, after a moment's awkward silence had passed. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Mr. Black," Sirius could have sworn Draco winked at him at this point.  
  
"I have a surprise for all of you tonight," said Malfoy. "But first, we should eat."  
  
He clapped his hands again, and the plates were filled with food. Fish, smothered in sauce, new potatoes and crisp, aromatic vegetables.  
  
"Trout from our own fisheries," said Malfoy. "Potatoes from our gardens. As you see my friends, Al Tamimi does an admirable job in keeping us self sufficient. Did you know?" he went on, as the assembled company took up cutlery and began to dine. "He can run this entire operation without supplies or help from the outside world, with a skeleton staff, for four whole weeks. There are enough dried stores in the cellars to keep us in food for three years, and as for the wine stocks ... well, Al Tamimi becomes more practiced with time, and has now acquired a fine eye for a vintage."  
  
"You flatter me, Master," said Al Tamimi.  
  
"You do noble work, and let nobody forget it," said Malfoy. "Of course, were it up to me I would spend more time here ... such is the beauty of the place. Indeed, we have arranged an excursion into the mountains for tomorrow. I trust you will join us, Sirius?"  
  
"I'd be honoured," scowled Sirius. Draco grinned surreptitiously.  
  
"Superb ... I trust the accommodation is to your liking?" asked Malfoy.  
  
"A little draughty," said Sirius. "Tell me ... where are you keeping Harry?"  
  
"Harry ... I believe is being accommodated in the guest bedrooms. Do not worry Sirius ... he is being cared for well. We take care of our merchandise. But let us not be concerned with him. You must tell me if there is anything wrong with your sleeping quarters. We shall of course, move you immediately."  
  
Draco sipped a little of the wine, and very nearly choked. Malfoy smiled indulgently.  
  
"You will, of course, forgive my son," he said. "I have spent a fortune on etiquette lessons for him, but still he fails to take it in. Doubtless matters will be improved once he has left adolescence."  
  
Draco would have liked to have grabbed his Father around the throat, and squeezed until the man died ...but he thought better of it.  
  
Somewhere else in the castle, a gong sounded. Malfoy rose to his feet. "You will, of course, excuse me, gentlemen," he said. "Our final guest has just arrived. Clearly he is running late."  
  
************  
  
Ron, Fred and George had spent their second consecutive day in their tower prison, watching the comings and goings down below in the courtyard. They had been woken early by the call of the muezzin, which seemed to bring about fifty people out of the castle to pray in the courtyard. After they had finished ... a convoy of about ten trucks had arrived, and their contents unloaded. Throughout the day, the helicopter had been buzzing around the castle like some enormous insect.  
  
By now, all three boys had decided that the food was safe to eat ... partly out of hunger, and partly, as George so eloquently put it. "If we're going to be virgin sacrifices, it won't do them any good to poison us, will it?"  
  
Neither Fred nor Ron had been able to come up with a convincing argument to that ... besides, they had already eaten most of the food by the time George made his point.  
  
"Incidentally," said Fred. "How can you be so sure they're thinking of sacrificing us?"  
  
George pondered this question for a minute. "Because of the clothes, and the rather top-notch treatment. Prisoners never get treated this well," he said. New robes had been brought up for them that morning, and their other ones taken away, which was a good thing, as they were all three starting to get a bit iffy.  
  
"Wonder what they're saying at home," said George.  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Well, we got hijacked and kidnapped," said George. "That kind of thing does tend to raise eyebrows. Even with the Daily Prophet involved."  
  
"Mum must be going spare," said Fred.  
  
"I'm worried about Ginny," said Ron.  
  
"Right," said Fred.  
  
"We're probably lead story on the ten o'clock news," said George. "They're probably printing 'Free the Weasley 3' T-shirts. We'll all get souvenir mugs afterwards ... and soon they'll start letting us see publishers."  
  
"How do you mean, publishers?" asked Ron.  
  
"Publishers are going to want to offer us six figure sums for the exclusive rights to our autobiographies, which we shall of course, be writing upon our release. I'm calling mine 'Banged Up' ... and I'm going to hold out for seven hundred and fifty grand."  
  
"Barking," said Ron.  
  
"Yeah ... you've never written so much as an essay in your entire life," said Fred.  
  
"That's not strictly true," said George. When he was ten, he had written a nine page epic about a wizard who was also a famous dinosaur hunter. He had never shown it to any of his brothers.  
  
"What'll you call yours, Ron?"  
  
"I want to go home."  
  
"That's a very eloquent title," said Fred. "I don't believe I have ever heard it put so succinctly."  
  
"No," said Ron. "I really do mean ... I want to go home."  
  
"Me too," said George. "Me too."  
  
************  
  
When Malfoy returned to the dining room, another, slightly taller man was following behind him. This man walked with a definite limp, his breath seemed to come agonizingly slowly. He struck Sirius as a man upon his last legs. Malfoy bade him sit at the end of the table.  
  
"Our guest favours us," said Malfoy, taking his seat. The other man did not remove the hood of his cloak.  
  
"I shall not be eating," he said, in a voice that could have split rocks. "But please ... feel free to continue."  
  
The others took up their knives and forks once more, and continued with their repast. Chaldean was looking at the new visitor with interest.  
  
"Surely you jest, Malfoy," he said. "Do you not reveal the identity of this honoured guest to us?"  
  
"I reveal my identity only when the time is right," said the stranger. "But believe me, Chaldean ... when the time is right, you will know who I am."  
  
"I am flattered, sir," said Chaldean. "You know my name."  
  
"I know you well of old," said the stranger. "We have not seen each other for many years ... and that makes a great sadness arise within me, for once, Chaldean, I valued your friendship."  
  
Chaldean stopped, a forkful of trout halfway to his mouth. "I await the revelation with interest," he said, his voice oozing not nearly as much confidence as it had moments earlier.  
  
"Naturally," said the stranger. "It will be very interesting for you. Malfoy, upon what are we supping tonight?"  
  
"This is fish ... trout from my private fishery, and the legumes are taken from my best gardens," said Malfoy.  
  
The stranger sighed. "Once ... I would have joined you," he said. "However, I am forbidden fish on the orders of my personal physician."  
  
"It is a great pity, sir," said Chaldean. "You are missing an excellent catch."  
  
"May I interrupt?" asked Sirius. Malfoy and Chaldean swivelled their heads to look at him. So did the stranger.  
  
"Proceed," said Malfoy. "All are equal at my table, and may speak freely if they wish to."  
  
"Indeed," said Sirius, who was feeling frankly outclassed amongst men of such advanced vocabulary, and was secretly longing for a thesaurus. "From where ... where do you come from, sir? I can't place your accent."  
  
The stranger sighed. "Would that I knew," he said. "I can never be sure anymore. Oh, I was born in England, but I have travelled widely in my lifetime, putting down roots wherever the fancy has taken me, so I hardly consider myself a native of that nation. Recently, I have been living in Eastern Europe ... something of a sobering experience for me. You, I believe, are Sirius Black."  
  
Sirius saw no point in arguing the point ... evidently he was amongst Dark Wizards ... and would perhaps be valued ... even spared if they still assumed him guilty.  
  
"That is my name, sir," he said.  
  
"I am pleased to finally meet you," said the stranger. "My ... my dearest friend, my ally, and the one who has helped me through these last few painful years. He knew you well of old, and he has told me a lot about you."  
  
"Might I know his name?"  
  
"You might do," said the stranger. "I, however, am not bound to reveal his identity to anyone. He accompanied me on my journey here today, and I understand he will be fed and accommodated in private quarters?"  
  
Malfoy nodded. "My men are seeing to his happiness at this time," he said. "I understand you requested a room next to his."  
  
The stranger nodded. "My needs are few and far between," he rasped. "There are, however, times when I consider it necessary to keep him at close quarters. Quite often I am troubled during my slumbers."  
  
"I understand completely," said Malfoy. "You are to be sleeping in our most luxurious suite. Your every wish can be fulfilled by my staff."  
  
"You please me, Malfoy," said the stranger. "I understand you are planning a surprise for us?"  
  
Malfoy nodded. "Saturday is Draco's birthday," he said. "He will be sixteen, will you not?"  
  
Draco nodded meekly. "Yes, Father," he said.  
  
"You are coming of age, young Draco," said the stranger. "I understand you are to be initiated into our band of brothers."  
  
Draco shivered ... he, of course, had no idea whom his Father's other guest was ...but the tone of his voice, the set of his shoulders, told him that this man was a force to be reckoned with ... a force to be obeyed if you valued life or limb. He knew one thing however, initiation sounded bad. It was something he wanted to avoid if at all possible.  
  
Sirius finished eating, and set down his knife and fork.  
  
"More wine, Sirius?" asked Malfoy.  
  
"I'm fine ... I'm okay," said Sirius. "Thank you all the same."  
  
Al Tamimi was smacking his lips noisily. "A most delicious feast, Master," he said.  
  
"It was adequate," said Malfoy. "Shall we partake of dessert?"  
  
"I am replete," said Chaldean.  
  
"To indulge further would be an extravagance," repeated Draco, who was now shivering so violently that Sirius worried the boy might be close to collapse ... though, to his surprise, he found he was shivering too. An air of menacing cold seemed to have filled the entire room, despite the blazing log fire, which did not seem to be giving out any heat whatsoever.  
  
"I thought as much," said Malfoy. "That means, gentlemen, that we may now proceed to the conclusion of our evening, and an announcement I have been meaning to make for some time."  
  
"We are in awe," said Chaldean.  
  
"Exactly," said Malfoy. "Chaldean, you have been a great friend to me ... a respected Master, a mentor to me. I have valued knowing you more than words can possibly express ..."  
  
Chaldean appeared to be swelling with pride.  
  
"You showed me the right path when I abandoned that which I had hated fighting for ... and I am forever thankful to you for placing me on the path away from Voldemort and his hated Death Eaters."  
  
Sirius was staring at him open mouthed. Since when had Malfoy 'abandoned' Voldemort? Hadn't those men who had brought him here been Death Eaters? It was thoroughly confusing. Chaldean, however, was smiling broadly. "Nobody appreciates more than I, Malfoy, the personal sacrifice that you have had to make. I am only thankful that I have been able to know you, and to, as you said, guide you."  
  
"Quite," said Malfoy. "However, Master, all good things must come to an end."  
  
Chaldean stopped in mid grin. "I'm sorry, Malfoy?"  
  
The stranger now stood up, and slowly removed his cloak. The man standing there had narrow, red, snakelike eyes, slit nostrils, gaunt, stretched features. There was no question who he was.  
  
"Artemis," said Voldemort. "We meet once more. I see the years have not weathered you as they have me."  
  
Chaldean was frozen, rooted to the spot. His eyes fixed on the man standing in front of him.  
  
Malfoy smiled. "You see ... Artemis ... it was the classic double bluff. Lord Voldemort wanted, after all, for all those who had fled his yoke to be returned for punishment. What better man than I ... one of his most loyal Death Eaters, to make contact with you? I spun you a story, concocted by Lord Voldemort of course, about how I had seen the light ... how I had realised that Lord Voldemort's ways were the wrong ways. You ... foolish simpleton that you are, took me at my word."  
  
"You unspeakable swine!" gasped Chaldean.  
  
"Maybe," said Malfoy. "However ... this unspeakable swine seems to have won the day, unless I am very much mistaken, which I assure you, Artemis, I am not. It has taken many years, and it has been hard to accomplish, pretending to spy for one side whilst actually spying for the other. But finally I am able to deliver the turncoat to his former master."  
  
"Turncoat! If anybody here is a turncoat, it's you!"  
  
"Your foul temper will get you nowhere, Artemis," said Malfoy. "So I suggest you remain silent."  
  
Voldemort surveyed Chaldean without pity. "I once knew you as a friend," he said. "You must surely have realised how mighty my vengeance must be."  
  
"You are a madman. I left because ... because I had no choice. If I am to go to my grave, then so be it ... but I go knowing that I made the right decision," hissed Chaldean, his eyes filled with fury. Al Tamimi, Sirius, and Draco were cowering in their chairs ... none of them had ever come face to face with the Dark Lord before.  
  
"But you are not to go to your grave," said Malfoy. "Unbelievable as it may seem, you are still to serve a purpose to me."  
  
He clapped his hands, and instantly, the double doors swung open, revealing four masked Death Eaters standing there.  
  
"Remove Chaldean. Place him in the cell where we were keeping Black, and have Black moved to Chaldean's suite. Ensure he is guarded constantly."  
  
Chaldean screamed as the Death Eaters placed their hands upon his shoulders, and began to haul him from the room. It was a pitiful, sickening scream, that shook the watchers to the core.  
  
"You bastard, Malfoy! You unspeakable traitor! We had a deal! We had a deal!"  
  
The doors closed behind them. Chaldean's screams of pure, unadulterated terror faded.  
  
Malfoy turned to Voldemort. "Master ... my work is done," he said, stooping to one knee. Voldemort stepped out from behind the table, and the other three watched him walk over to where Malfoy was kneeling, taking every step as though it were to be the last one he ever took. He placed his hand upon Malfoy's head.  
  
"You have done well," he said. "You will be honoured beyond your wildest dreams."  
  
"Thank you, Master."  
  
Malfoy got to his feet again. It almost looked as though tears of happiness were pouring down his face. "I have waited long for this moment, Master," he said.  
  
"And I too," said Voldemort.  
  
"I am humbled and honoured to be able to present to you, my son."  
  
Voldemort turned. Draco stood, rooted to the spot. He felt paralysed under the man's gaze, terrified. A mere month ago he would have killed to be in his position, but now he could think of nothing more disgusting, nothing more horrible than to be touched by Voldemort.  
  
The Dark Lord was offering Draco his hand. Draco looked to his Father, who was smiling at him, a look of such joy upon his face as Draco had never seen before. Draco, without thinking, reached out, and shook the proffered hand.  
  
"It is well," said Voldemort. "The ancient blood of the Malfoy clan flows through your veins, and on Saturday, your birthday ... you become a true member of your family ... and I ... I hand on the torch to a new generation. You are the first Draco, and the first of many. Soon ... very soon, we shall be great again."  
  
He let go of Draco's hand. Draco stared at it. Livid, red weals had appeared on the skin where Voldemort had touched him.  
  
************  
  
The balmy night air was thick with exotic scents, wafted past them on a gentle breeze. The whirring sounds of crickets and cicadas could be heard, and the moon had just risen, casting the scene in an ethereal glow. It was the kind of night Hermione had always dreamed about. She smiled at Harry over the top of her champagne glass. Harry smiled back.  
  
"Did I say you looked wonderful?" he asked, after a moment's silence had passed between them.  
  
Hermione nodded. "There are more like this in my wardrobe," she said, fingering the shoulder straps of her blue dress. "Aren't they lovely?"  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"You know ... you look, very nice yourself," said Hermione.  
  
Harry blushed scarlet. "Well," he said. "It's, just something I threw on."  
  
"Evidently," said Hermione. "Black and gold suits you, by the way. It brings out the colour of your eyes."  
  
Harry grinned. "Are you sure that isn't the champagne talking?" he asked.  
  
Hermione nodded. "Very probably," she said. "We're in danger of turning into teenaged drunkards, and that, Harry, would be a very bad thing indeed."  
  
"A very bad thing," said Harry, who was feeling kind of light headed.  
  
"You seem ... better, today," said Hermione.  
  
"Don't think I am," said Harry. "I've been kicked around, taken to some god-forsaken country I've never heard of. And I seem to be a prisoner."  
  
"Well, so do I," said Hermione. "But can't we be happy? It's been a perfect evening, and I don't want to spoil it by moping around."  
  
"Okay," said Harry.  
  
"I know you've had a lot of sadness, and so forth," Hermione went on. "So I appreciate it if you don't feel the same way I do ... but I ..."  
  
"Hermione ... I said okay," said Harry. "You're right ... it has been perfect, and I don't want to spoil it either."  
  
"That's ... very sweet of you," said Hermione, looking frankly surprised at him. "I would have thought you would have wanted ... you know."  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," said Harry. "Let me savour the moment ... besides, you really don't want me crying all over you again."  
  
Hermione smiled.  
  
"There's one thing," said Harry. "It has been perfect and all ... and I'm glad I'm here with you ... but there's still one thing missing. Us?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Oh, Harry, I was afraid we'd get onto this," she said. "This doesn't change a thing. You are a friend ... you are probably my best friend, but I don't want anything more than that."  
  
"I see," said Harry, standing up abruptly.  
  
"No ... I'm sorry if you thought," said Hermione. "It's just. I don't know how to put it to you. I don't want that ..."  
  
Harry leant closer. "I wasn't storming off, Hermione," he said. "Relax. Let's look at the stars. I like looking at the stars."  
  
Hermione rose from the table, and followed him over to the edge of the balcony. Harry leant over the edge, and peered down into the courtyard below.  
  
"I thought you wanted to look at the stars," said Hermione.  
  
"And smell the climbing roses," said Harry. "Look ... they're rather nice, aren't they?"  
  
Hermione looked down. There was an enormous climbing rose covering the entire side of the building below them, dotted with deep red, fragrant flowers.  
  
"Isn't that something?"  
  
"It's lovely," she said.  
  
"I'd get you one," said Harry. "But I left my pocket knife at Hogwarts."  
  
"I'll pretend I've got one then," said Hermione. "And it is even more beautiful than I thought."  
  
Harry smiled.  
  
"What's that constellation then?" asked Hermione.  
  
Harry followed the direction of her point. "I don't know," he said. "I've never seen that one before ... I've never seen the sky this clear before. We must be miles from any towns."  
  
Hermione nodded. "I know that one is the little bear," she said. "Ursa Minor."  
  
"You mean the saucepan?" asked Harry. "That's my favourite."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"It's the only one I can identify," said Harry. "That and Orion. He's easy to spot because of the three stars in a row. I think that's it there ... except it's hard to tell with all these other stars getting in the way."  
  
"I never thought there could be so many of them," said Hermione. "Look up there!"  
  
A shooting star flashed briefly across the sky, leaving a pure white trail, then it faded, and was gone.  
  
"Did you make a wish?" she asked.  
  
Harry nodded. "I'm not telling, though," he said.  
  
"I bet I know what it was," said Hermione.  
  
Harry shook his head. "It wasn't the obvious one," he said. "I've been wishing that all my life, and it hasn't happened ... yet."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I didn't mean to bring it up."  
  
Harry shrugged. "It has a tendency to slip into the conversation whenever I'm around," he said. "If I were you, I wouldn't worry about it. It's just one of those things."  
  
"That's very ... very nicely put," said Hermione. She caught Harry's yawn. "You tired?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Long day," he said.  
  
"Perhaps you should make tracks back to your room," said Hermione. "I'll see you in the morning."  
  
"No need," said Harry, looking slightly quizzical. "I'm already there."  
  
Hermione gave him a funny look. "Harry ... this is my room."  
  
"I think you'll find ... " began Harry.  
  
"But there's only one bed," said Hermione, raising her eyebrows.  
  
"I'll go on the floor ... or on one of those sofas," said Harry. "I'll ... I'll be okay."  
  
"Then I'll feel guilty," said Hermione. "Why don't I sleep on the sofa? You need a good night's sleep after the last couple of days."  
  
"Then that wouldn't be very chivalrous of me, would it?" said Harry. "Besides, I really don't mind."  
  
"Why don't we both sleep on sofas?" said Hermione.  
  
"That kind of defeats the whole object of having a bed in the first place," said Harry. He looked thoughtful for a brief second. "I suppose ... if you wanted, we could, well ..."  
  
"Share it?"  
  
But Harry did not reply to her. His face had gone white ... quite drained of all its usual colour and vitality. "Harry?" she asked, stepping nearer to him, her face filled with concern. "Harry ... are you okay?"  
  
Harry clutched at his forehead. It felt as though his head was splitting in two, so intense was the pain. He could barely enounce the words. "My scar."  
  
"Is it hurting you again?" cried Hermione, hopping from foot to foot in agitation. "No ... sorry, that's a silly question! Um ... help. Harry, what can I do?"  
  
Harry clutched at her shoulder. "Need a chair," he breathed. "... be okay."  
  
Hermione put her arm gently around him, and was shocked to realise he was absolutely freezing cold. Slowly, with Harry taking faltering, unsteady steps, she helped him inside, and laid him down on the bed. He sank gratefully into the covers.  
  
"Thanks," he whispered.  
  
"Is it getting better?" asked Hermione, peering anxiously over him.  
  
Harry nodded. "It's fading now," he said.  
  
"Will you be all right?" she asked.  
  
"I'll be fine in a minute," said Harry. "I'm sorry ... I ruined your evening."  
  
Hermione gave a wry chuckle, which she realised too late he could have interpreted as mocking. "Don't fret about it," she said, tenderly. "It's nothing."  
  
Harry, however, had a nasty feeling that it was something ... something big.  
  
************  
  
Dumbledore closed the office door, and walked over to the fireside, where two people were sitting in large armchairs. One of them was Professor McGonagall, the other Doctor Jones, who was blowing her nose into a large gingham handkerchief.  
  
"Is there no news?" asked Professor McGonagall. "Nothing at all?"  
  
Dumbledore shook his head gravely. "Nothing beyond the note that we found," he said. "The Ministry have taken it away for analysis, but I think it is only too obvious what we are dealing with here."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I fear, Minerva, that Voldemort has finally made his move on us. I knew we should have acted sooner," said Dumbledore, apparently not noticing Doctor Jones and Professor McGonagall flinching at the mention of the name. "The Fat Lady remembers only that three men came to her late in the night, at midnight, and gave the correct password."  
  
"Then the rules should be changed, surely," said Doctor Jones.  
  
"The Fat Lady has indeed been removed from her post," said Dumbledore. "I think it wiser in the meantime that the entrance is guarded by somebody who can actually recognise who should be coming and going, and who should not."  
  
"But why did they take Sirius?" she asked. Professor McGonagall snorted, and looked away, an expression of the utmost disgust stretched across her features. She had still not forgiven Sirius for the hot water bottle incident.  
  
"We may never know," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps he is part of the scheme ... perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, the fact remains that three of our students are missing, and the parents have had to be informed. The Grangers are arriving here tonight. I have had no reply from the Malfoys or the Dursleys. This does not surprise me in the slightest."  
  
"What about the students?" asked Professor McGonagall. "What can we do about them?"  
  
"For the time being, nothing," said Dumbledore. "As I said, the note can tell us little, there was only one word on it; Naxcivan ... I can think of no meaning or sense to the word."  
  
Doctor Jones looked up. "It's a place," she said. "In the Caucasus mountains, near Turkey, a region of Azerbaijan, I think."  
  
"How do you know?" asked Professor McGonagall, sounding suspicious.  
  
"I worked with dragons," said Doctor Jones. "The Caucasian Black ... it's a very dangerous breed, and it lives in that area, though its numbers are limited."  
  
Professor McGonagall still appeared to be regarding her with suspicion.  
  
"Fascination as elementary draconian biology evidently is," said Dumbledore, breaking the silence between the two women. "It will not help us solve our current problem."  
  
But Professor McGonagall suddenly looked as though a burst of inspiration had unexpectedly struck her. "Wait," she said. "Caucasian Blacks. Gwyneth, were they not the types used by Dragon Riders?"  
  
"Yes ... of course," said Doctor Jones. "I see where you're coming from, Minerva ... you could have a point."  
  
"What would the Dragon Riders have to do with this?" asked Dumbledore.  
  
"Caucasian Blacks come from Naxcivan, right?" said Professor McGonagall. "So, suddenly three students and a teacher have gone missing ... and our one clue is a dropped piece of paper with this name scrawled upon it."  
  
"You are theorising that Harry, and the others, have been taken by Dragon Riders," said Dumbledore. "You'll excuse me, Minerva, but doesn't it seem just a tad far fetched?"  
  
"Maybe so," said Professor McGonagall. "But can you come up with a better theory? Albus ... three, six students are missing, another is lying in a hospital bed at St. Mungo's, in peril for her life, all in connection with Dark activity. Surely it cannot be coincidence ..."  
  
Dumbledore was shaking his head. "I regret to say I fear it must be," he said. "You both appear to be taking mere threads of evidence, and trying to piece them together ... you are building the house from the roof down, as it were. I must admit that the Weasley children have very probably fallen victim to Dark magic ... after all, the Mark was seen in the vicinity ... as for the absurd theory that they have somehow been kidnapped by Dragon Riders ..."  
  
"Dragon Riders worked for Voldemort, did they not?" asked Doctor Jones.  
  
"I believe they had links to the Silver Serpent cult, yes," said Dumbledore. "But the Dragon Riders were suppressed after Voldemort's downfall. Their dragons were released back into the wild, they were imprisoned ..."  
  
"But couldn't they have reformed?" asked Doctor Jones. "Naxcivan is a secretive region, few Westerners were ever allowed in during the Communist days. The terrain is rocky, arid and mountainous ... it would surely not be difficult for them to have started some sort of operation in the area."  
  
"Possibly," said Dumbledore. "However, it all remains idle speculation. I suggest we sleep on the problem."  
  
"That's your solution to everything," hissed Professor McGonagall. "Meanwhile lives are in mortal peril ... the students are afraid for their safety, and we stand to lose all our credibility, especially yours, if it is leaked that we cannot even set up proper magical wards to guard our pupils. You must look as though you are doing something ..."  
  
Dumbledore seemed to be staring off into space.  
  
"Are you listening to a word I have been saying?"  
  
Dumbledore seemed to jump back into reality. "The Grangers have arrived," he said. "I should greet them ... Minerva, Gwyneth ... I shall have to leave you. Wish me luck."  
  
************  
  
The dragons flew on into the night, soaring high above the fortress. From here the tiny lighted windows appeared as fairy lights on a Christmas tree, and the Riders looked down upon their domain, still goading their charges higher into the night sky. The beating of their vast, leathery wings was regular as their heartbeats.  
  
They glided on the updraft over the mountaintops, dotted here and there with the lights of Muggle villages and isolated farmsteads. For the Riders, the sensation was akin to one of intense pleasure, perched precariously atop their steeds with naught but a thin whip to control the mighty beasts. Caucasian Blacks could be tamed ... but it took vast effort. The two specimens flying tonight were the result of years of cumulative training down in the more secretive, isolated valleys.  
  
Now they came swooping out of the sky. The Riders had their orders, and they would carry them out. Below them was a small house, built of rough stone, with a corrugated iron roof ...the home and livelihood of a family. There was a chicken coop in the yard, which was piled high with rusting junk, cars and tractors ... neither lasted long in the harsh climate, so far from civilization.  
  
At a gentle, whispered command, the dragons opened their mouths ... long, forked tongues licking at the air, beady eyes alert and staring.  
  
The front of the house exploded under the pressure of the jet of fire. The dragons passed overhead, their wings fanning the flames. The Riders could hear screams of terror, but they did not look back. Their work was done, and they flew their charges back up into the sky.  
  
Behind them, the orange glow lit up the darkened land.  
  
A/N  
  
Well, who to thank this time ... Dr Branford ... I suggested to Rave we could have a competition to see how many times we can all write you into our fics, so watch this space. Rave ... obviously, and here's a plug for her ... go read her stuff now! By the way, you wrote 'Happy Turkey Day' in your last review, which then prompted me to spend the rest of the day humming the 'Happy, Happy Turkey Day' song from the Addams Family Values movie and that annoyed me, although previously I'd been humming 'Happy Christmas (War is Over)' by John Lennon and Yoko Ono ... go figure. If you really want to do Draco/Draco slash, Rave, feel free, but I'm not sure how that will work out. I rather think Draco will end up getting severely pissed off with Draco, and anyway, Draco can beat up Draco, as Cass so helpfully pointed out in her last A/N.  
  
Who else ... well, Keith did a rather spiffing Lord of the Rings crossover and had a pretty decent shot at a follow up too, and then I confused him and myself by forgetting his most blatant plot element, for which I apologise profusely. Cassandra Claire ... the Draco Sinister bandwagon rolls ever onwards ... it is now a slightly out of control bandwagon and there are lots of people hanging off the sides and screaming, but it is fun nonetheless, and before I offend her again, she is a major deity. People are writing me long reviews, which I like ... Rita was amongst them ... um ... I wasn't going to pursue the dryad angle, but ... um ... dryads are allowed wands in France ... okay?  
  
Karina (developing an interesting line in Neville fic) and Viola are still beta readers ... and they are both to thank for their brilliant work, as well as the fact that I am now gradually learning to put a comma before people's names when they come at the end of a sentence, instead of being told through finding loads of little red correction marks there! Thank you both! Kayara is now a happy triplet??? and still wants more ... Cassie Lee thinks England is cold ... she is right. Al's hand is about to fall off, but he is far too nice to review his own work, and has also started referring to himself in the third person, which is a bad sign. Sanna; a Swedish blue and yellow motif accompanying Hidden Behind The Mask 8, which I recommend for D/H shippers. J. K. Rowling has once again tried to quash our hopes by saying Draco won't switch sides in Book 5, but she hasn't actually been reviewing me, so that doesn't count (we can but hope). Is there anybody else ... yeah, for sure, Sherry, Elyssa, Stinkerbell reviewed Part One the other day ... um ... so in case she gets this far any time soon, as apparently she is rather bogged down with work right now, I ought to say ... um ... I hadn't been thinking of what Harry wore to bed at the time ... let's just say it was a very hot day ... indeed. I can honestly say nobody else pointed that out to me. Think what you like, I'm assuming he was wearing underwear.  
  
Thanks also to Amanita, magical little me, Lizzy, Colette, dani, Dendraica, and Portia, who will give me a death threat if I hurt the Weasleys again. Well, that's all for now. See you next time!  



	10. Dragon Riders

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
Incidentally, it helps if American readers know that Hovis is a bread company ... a Lada is a very badly built Russian car, and that a Robin Reliant is a small car with three wheels, and is a national joke in Britain ... much like the Regis and Kathie Lee Show.  
  
PART TEN. DRAGON RIDERS.  
  
Harry awoke with a start. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, and he could hear the sounds of activity down below in the courtyard, of shouted orders and hurrying footsteps. He snuggled down under the covers, and then gave a cry of alarm as he felt someone's hand underneath the small of his back.  
  
Slowly, he turned over. There was a head on the other pillow. He sat up hurriedly, flinging off the bedclothes.  
  
Hermione stirred, she rolled over into the space Harry had vacated, and then opened her eyes, blinking in the bright light. She gasped as she saw Harry looking at her.  
  
"You gave me such a fright!" she exclaimed. "Have they brought our breakfast yet?"  
  
"Hermione," said Harry. "I ... I just, I just woke up ... and, you were lying next to me ... actually in the bed!"  
  
Hermione nodded. "Yes, and?" she said. "You expected to wake up with Draco lying next to you?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "No ... no," he said. "This isn't happening, tell me this isn't happening."  
  
"What;s the matter, Harry?"  
  
"No ... no. This isn't happening to me," Harry had gone a funny colour. "Oh fuck, no ... say this isn't happening to me!"  
  
"What isn't happening?" said Hermione, looking perplexed. "What are you on about ..."  
  
"No ... shut up ... I didn't!" cried Harry. "I couldn't ... I'm ... I don't even know ..."  
  
Hermione sat up, and put her hands on his shoulders to calm him. "hat the hell are you on about?"  
  
"I think I need to go and take a shower," murmured Harry. "Please, just tell me we didn't ..."  
  
"We slept together, if that's what you mean," said Hermione. "And by slept, I mean to lose consciousness. Relax ... nothing happened ... I just, didn't much fancy sleeping on the sofa, and you kind of crashed out here, so I thought, well ... what harm can it do?"  
  
"You swear you didn't do anything to me?" asked Harry.  
  
"I promise ... you're still wearing your pyjamas, aren't you?"  
  
"Damn ... you've got me all disappointed now," said Harry. "Perhaps I ought to have a shower after all."  
  
Hermione sat up in bed ... she was wearing a long, white satin nightgown. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said.  
  
Harry didn't say anything to this.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Forget it," said Harry.  
  
Hermione scrambled over to his side of the bed. "No ... I'm sorry," she said. "Please, it was stupid ... I don't know what made me. I should have slept on the sofa."  
  
"I said, forget it," grinned Harry. He cuffed her playfully on the shoulder. "You really know how to disappoint a guy, don't you. Look ... I'm going to have a shower. I may be some time."  
  
**************  
  
Al Tamimi closed the door behind him, and slipped silently into Malfoy's office. Malfoy, who was standing by the window, watching two buzzards circling something that had died in the gorge, turned round.  
  
"How are our guests this morning?" he asked.  
  
"All is well," said Al Tamimi. "Draco is still sleeping ... but I understand the others will shortly be served breakfast."  
  
"And of our Lord and Master?"  
  
"He is being tended to in his quarters by his manservant, Pettigrew," said Al Tamimi. "All seems well."  
  
"Excellent ... I need hardly remind you for the importance of creating the right impression for Lord Voldemort," said Malfoy, rocking backwards and forwards upon his heels. "If anything were to go wrong, it would be your head I would be demanding, on a silver platter."  
  
"I quite understand, Master," said Al Tamimi.  
  
"What of Chaldean?" asked Malfoy.  
  
"He is under heavy guard in the dungeons," said Al Tamimi. "His breakfast was taken down some time ago. Tell me, Master, what are we to do with him now that we have him?"  
  
"Chaldean is the vilest of low-life scum," said Malfoy. "He deserves to die ... however, I cannot help thinking it would be more constructive to allow Koschenko to play with him for a little while."  
  
"Koschenko ... I will inform the guards," said Al Tamimi. "What of the children?"  
  
"Make ready the altar," said Malfoy. "The sacrifices will commence at sunrise tomorrow. First the three Weasleys ... I may yet find a use for Romulus' stupidity. Then Potter's blood must be spilled to appease our Lord. Then, finally, to complete the ritual and open the chamber, Omar. He was brought here last night under heavy guard. I will see him later."  
  
"What about the Mudblood?" asked Al Tamimi.  
  
"The one Draco will insist on calling Hermione?" said Malfoy. "I thought it might be fitting for her to serve as a birthday present."  
  
**************  
  
Draco sat grumpily in the chair in front of his dressing room mirror, as his Father's personal hair stylist fussed over him. There was a towel draped around his neck, catching the clumps of hair as they fell.  
  
"I like my hair as it is," he moped.  
  
"Nevertheless," said the hairdresser. "Your Father has requested that you adopt a more civilised style for your birthday celebrations."  
  
Draco huffed. "It's my birthday," he said. "I don't see why I shouldn't get to do what I want."  
  
"The guests will be most distinguished," said the hairdresser, who was not used to dealing with stubborn kids, and was rapidly starting to become annoyed with Draco. "They will not want to see you looking scruffy."  
  
Draco was offended. "I am not scruffy," he said, imperiously. "I am esoteric and mysterious ... and I like that floppy bit at the sides ... leave that well alone ... it took years."  
  
The hairdresser attacked it with the scissors. "We're just making it a bit less extreme," she cooed. "To be fair, Draco, you can barely see out of your right eye."  
  
"I like not being able to see out of my right eye," said Draco. "It gives me an air of dashing sexiness ... is that a word?"  
  
The hairdresser shrugged. "Anyway," she said. "I think that should do."  
  
Draco opened his eyes, and looked in the mirror. "You know," he began.  
  
"It isn't too bad, is it?" she said.  
  
Draco put a hand to his head. "It looks ... better. How much did you take off?"  
  
"About half of it," said the hairdresser.  
  
"Doesn't look it," said Draco.  
  
"That's magic," she smiled. "I must say ... I'm rather proud of that."  
  
"We should get you at Hogwarts," Draco went on. "You'd be much better than the usual barber."  
  
"I aim to please," said the hairdresser. "Now," she whipped away the towel, "we need to select you an outfit. Your Father wants black, for the ceremony and the reception, you understand ..."  
  
"Of course," snarled Draco. "What the dear darling Daddy says goes."  
  
"However, for the party in the evening," she said. "I think something to bring out the colour of your eyes. A nice navy blue usually works well with Malfoy hair. Do you think ... something with a high collar?"  
  
"I like high collars," said Draco, grinning.  
  
She had produced two sets of dress robes on hangers from the wardrobe behind them, and was holding them up. Draco turned his swivel chair around to see better.  
  
"Plain and simple on the left ... classic magical elegance. This one is Gregorio Yannucci, and the other one, a touch more class, very extravagant but very debonair, it's a genuine Branford, you know."  
  
"The simpler one," said Draco. "That one looks like some sort of bordello."  
  
"A very wise choice," she said. "Now ... we need to get you a fitting for your new work robes."  
  
"Work robes?"  
  
"The ones you will be wearing to your initiation," she said. "Stand up ... this won't take a moment."  
  
**************  
  
The hairdresser had also paid a morning visit to Harry and Hermione to spruce them up. However, she had not done such a good job as she had on Draco, and Harry's hair had been successfully butchered. Now he sat on a little stool in the bathroom, as Hermione whispered some choice words, and waved her wand over Harry's head.  
  
"Did it work?" he asked, feeling the top of his head. To his enormous relief, his hair had grown back.  
  
"Like a charm," said Hermione. "Which is ironic, really, because that's what it was."  
  
"Mirror," said Harry. Hermione handed him one. He looked just as good as normal.  
  
"I didn't really think the BNP look was for you," said Hermione. "Do I still look okay?"  
  
Harry nodded. Her hair had been put up into a bun, which made her look slightly more severe, but no less pretty than usual.  
  
"We should explore," said Harry, after a moment's silence.  
  
"Can we ... actually, you know, get out?" asked Hermione.   
  
"Don't see any reason why not," said Harry. "The bloke who brought our breakfast kept calling us honoured guests ... and you don't really think they'd give me all this gear and not expect me to try and find someone to show it off to," he grinned and rubbed his hands together.  
  
"You're in danger of turning into a fashion victim," said Hermione. "Are you sure my bum doesn't look big in this dress?"  
  
"You are in no danger of becoming fat," said Harry. "I'm going to go look around ... do you want to come?"  
  
Hermione shrugged. "Yeah ... I suppose," she said.  
  
To Harry's surprise, the door had been left unlocked, and it opened without a sound. Outside, they found themselves on a balcony running all the way round an atria, open to the sky, with cool fountains playing at the bottom, and climbing plants threading their tendrils around and about the ornate, antique stonework. Apart from themselves, there was no sign of life  
  
"It's lovely," breathed Hermione. "Isn't it?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Let's go this way first."  
  
He led her along the balcony, and down a flight of stairs to the bottom. Leading out of the atria there was a dark, shady corridor patterned with exquisite tiling that Hermione immediately identified as Moorish.  
  
"This is just like the Alhambra," she said, following Harry along the corridor. Now they found themselves in the courtyard visible from their balcony. There were still several cars parked there, although the truck had gone.  
  
"Wonder how big it is?" said Harry. They wandered towards the gatehouse ... but finding their way barred by two very menacing looking men carrying Kalashnikov rifles, who shouted something at them in Russian, they turned back, and headed into the main body of the castle.  
  
Inside, it was much, much cooler, very calm, and very quiet. It reminded Hermione of being in a cathedral, except there were no hordes of tourists trampling all over the place. They both stood in acute wonder for some minutes, staring up at the ceiling, which had been adorned with fine frescoes. The sunlight falling through the stained glass window cast an enchanting pattern on the floor.  
  
"Awesome," was all Harry could say.  
  
"I could die in a place like this," whispered Hermione ... the calm serenity of the enormous room seemed to somehow dampen every noise. Even their footsteps sounded quieter as they walked across the hallway, and down a flight of steps into another corridor lined with suits of armour. There were several very large, heavy looking wooden doors as well. Harry pushed open the first one.  
  
"Looks like some kind of study," he said, stepping inside. Hermione followed. They did, indeed, appear to be in a study, there were shelves, filled with ancient books, lining three walls, and French windows giving views of the mountains ... the floor was of polished wood, and standing directly in the centre of the room was a magnificent mahogany desk. There was a stack of papers on the desktop.  
  
"See anything interesting?" asked Hermione.  
  
Harry thumbed through the papers. "It's all in Russian," he said. "I don't read Cyrillic."  
  
"This place is giving me the creeps," said Hermione. "Let's look somewhere else."  
  
"What's wrong with it?" asked Harry. "I think it's very nice ... kind of Baroque."  
  
"Harry ... have you seen some of these books they've got?" asked Hermione. She picked one up off the shelf. "Harry ... this is Mein Kampf."  
  
"What of it?" asked Harry ... the expression on his face making plain the fact he had never heard of it.  
  
"This was only written by Adolph Hitler. This is only the most hateful, racist book of all time."  
  
"So why do these people have a copy in their study?" asked Harry.  
  
"I don't know ... perhaps they're fascists," said Hermione, giving him a withering stare. "Harry ... this place is freaking me out ... I want to get out of here."  
  
"I regret that won't be possible," said a harsh, drawling voice. Both of them spun round to see a tall man standing in the doorway. In looks he resembled an older, harder, more pinched Draco Malfoy. Both of them recognised him at once.  
  
"What're you doing here?" asked Hermione, turning up her nose.  
  
"Well," said Malfoy, snatching the book from Hermione's hand, and replacing it on the shelf. "Considering that this is my castle, I would assume, young lady, that I have a right to be here. What ... might I ask ... are you two doing in my private office?"  
  
"Nothing," said Hermione, quickly. Harry shook his head.  
  
"Just looking around," said Harry. "Sir," he added, gulping.  
  
"It seems you were doing considerably more than looking around," said Malfoy. "It seems to me as though you were both spying ... nasty little wretches sneaking around my home, spying upon my personal affairs. How did you get out of your room?"  
  
"The door was unlocked," said Harry. "We didn't think anybody would mind ..."  
  
"I mind," said Malfoy. "I mind considerably. Who knows what you might have stumbled across. For your own safety, I must insist that you remain within your quarters at all times."  
  
"We weren't hurting anything," protested Harry.  
  
"But you may have been hurt yourselves," said Malfoy. "Step closer into the light, Harry ... I want to see you more clearly."  
  
Harry stepped forwards, the sunlight pouring in through the French windows illuminating his face.  
  
"You always did look like your Father," said Malfoy. "A fine, upstanding man ... although it is a pity he refused to work for us."  
  
"He'd sooner have died!" spat Harry. Hermione put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. This was a potentially violent man they were dealing with here.  
  
"Yes ... as I seem to remember rightly, that is exactly what he ended up doing," said Malfoy ... his face cracked suddenly into a grin. "Must have been rather a shock for the poor man, don't you think?"  
  
Hermione sneered. "Better dead than you," she spat.  
  
Malfoy's grin became a glower of rage. "I would watch your lip, girl," he said. "Someone with your ... blood type can scarce afford to provoke me. Now return forthwith to your room. Tomorrow you will serve your purpose."  
  
************  
  
Draco had privately resolved to sneak off and find Hermione just as soon as an opportunity presented itself. He wandered the corridors and passages of the castle for a good fifteen minutes, before realising that, of course, he didn't have a clue where she was staying, or even if she was in the castle.  
  
If the truth be told, Draco was scared out of his wits. As the situation appeared to him, his Father had kidnapped him from Hogwarts ... flown him to his estates, and was planning some sort of birthday surprise ... and that surprise involved Voldemort ... which was not an especially pleasing prospect. He sighed as he remembered how only a month ago, he would have laid down his life for the cause of the Dark Side. But so much water had flowed under the bridge since then ... so much had come out. He felt like a different person ... a new Draco, and the new Draco was rapidly consuming the old one, and making its presence felt. New Draco certainly did not want to go to his birthday party, however nice the surprise turned out to be. New Draco was frankly dreading it. Old Draco was still standing in the corner of his mind, looking worried, but New Draco was on the verge of victory.  
  
No ... there was no question of what Draco wanted to do. Escape was the only thing on his mind ... well, that and Hermione.  
  
"Draco!" he heard a loud, booming voice ... his Father's. "How fare you this morning?"  
  
Draco stood stock still. "Well, thank you, Father," he said. Old Draco jumped triumphantly up and down, and danced a little jig.  
  
"I take it we are off exploring," said his Father, clapping what Draco supposed he must interpret as a paternal hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Yes ... we ... am," said Draco.  
  
His Father smiled. "Your command of the first person plural must be improved as a matter of urgency," he said. "But it is of no consequence right now. As a matter of fact, I have been looking for you ... I want to show you something. I think you will like it."  
  
"What might that be?" asked Draco.  
  
"You will see when we get there," said his Father. "Come, follow me."  
  
"What is it?" asked Draco, as he followed his Father down the corridor. "Is it a present?"  
  
"Kind of," said his Father, mysteriously. "It is a little, surprise I have been organising. Think of it, if you will, as an early birthday present."  
  
"Talking about my birthday," said Draco, stumbling slightly as he struggled to keep up with his Father, who was walking very fast indeed. "How is ... our Master this morning?"  
  
"Lord Voldemort sleeps right now," said his Father. "He does not wish to be disturbed, and I do not advise you to try and see him."  
  
"No, I ... um, wasn't going to," said Draco. "Father?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Why did ... why did you tell me Chaldean was going to be ..."  
  
"I had imagined your curiosity would be aroused, Draco," said his Father ... turning left into another corridor. They were evidently deep underground, for the passages were now hewn out of the solid rock itself, and water was dripping from the ceiling, and collecting in puddles at their feet. "Chaldean abandoned Voldemort ... that part of the story was true ... but I never abandoned Voldemort. It is as I said ... I had to pretend to have renounced the laughable evils of His glorious reign, to allow myself to get close to the traitor Chaldean."  
  
"What are ... what are you going to do with him now you've caught him?" asked Draco, tripping slightly, for the floor of the passageway was very uneven. Ahead of them was a shaft of light. As they passed, Draco looked up what appeared to be some sort of air hole. There was shimmering blue sky directly overhead.  
  
"He will be executed tomorrow," said his Father. "Voldemort will be there."  
  
"I don't want people executed on my birthday," said Draco. His Father stopped dead in his tracks, and wheeled around to face him.  
  
"Nevertheless, it has been decreed," he growled. "Do not vex me, Draco. Events have been very tiresome just lately, and I am not at my best natured ... and there are no pathetic teachers to come to your aid here."  
  
Draco gulped.  
  
"Now ... do you want to see your surprise, or don't you?"  
  
They walked further, in silence, for a couple of minutes. Then Draco looked up ... the passageway he had been walking along had suddenly become a lot darker, the braziers were fewer and further between, and the walls seemed to be shaking with what sounded like very loud snoring. The passage seemed to be hewn out of the rock itself, and it had the look of having been hollowed out by water, or some liquid, for the walls were smooth and curved. It was almost like walking down a pipe.  
  
Cautiously, he pressed on. He had not noticed it as he had been walking along, quietly absorbed in his thoughts, but the temperature seemed to be rising steadily. He carried on walking. The snoring sound was getting louder too ... and with it, came some strange hissing sound.  
  
Draco rounded a corner, and stopped dead in his tracks at what confronted him. He had entered a large room ... no, he had entered a bloody massive room. It seemed to go on for miles. The room was lit with a peculiar orange glow, the heat was intense. Curled up on the stone floor, sleeping, were four enormous black dragons.  
  
Draco stared at them, open-mouthed. He had always loved dragons.  
  
As his eyes became accustomed to the strange light, he could see people scurrying about on the floor below, carrying what looked like pails of water, suspended from yokes across their backs. They worked only semi-clothed in the fierce heat, and each of their faces was gaunt and pale from lack of sunlight. And now Draco noticed ... they were all stopping, and staring up at him.  
  
"I leave you here, Draco," said his Father. "Somebody will be along directly," with that, he turned on his heels and disappeared the way they had come.  
  
Directly in front of Draco was a stone staircase leading down to the floor. Gingerly, for he had never had the eyes of so many people on him before, he began to walk down it. Some of them moved hurriedly away, as if the sight of him disturbed them somehow.  
  
"I wouldn't go any further, boy," said a voice behind him. Draco stopped, and turned.  
  
There was a woman standing behind him on the steps, wearing dragon hide boots, with fearsome looking spurs on the heels, and what appeared to be some kind of suit of armour ... but one that fitted like a glove, and seemed to shimmer in the red light, as though it was not entirely there.  
  
"You must be Draco," said the woman. "Your Father told us you might be interested in seeing what goes on here."  
  
"He ... he did?" asked Draco ... who had not seen someone as beautiful before in his life.  
  
"My name is Tatiana," she said, stepping forwards. "I am a Dragon Rider."  
  
"A what now?" asked Draco.  
  
"A Dragon Rider ... I ride the dragons ... I allow them to take flight, and I guide them through the sky," Draco could do nothing but nod. He had heard of Dragon Riders, of course, he had even seen pictures. In the old days they had been a constituent part of Voldemort's Dark forces. He had never dared to hope he would ever meet a real one. To pilot a dragon would be the greatest thrill of his life!  
  
Tatiana held out her hand to Draco. "I suppose you'll be wanting to see the dragons up close?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"You had better come with me then ... you will need some instruction."  
  
She led him slowly back up the stairs, and through a small door that Draco had not noticed before. As the door swung shut behind him, he could hear the people down below resume their wearisome work.  
  
Tatiana had led him into a large room, where there were two other women lounging around on easy chairs. One of them was smoking a cigarette.  
  
"Romana, Iselda," Tatiana said. "This is Draco. You will recognise him, of course."  
  
Iselda nodded. "It is an honour to meet you," she said, in a heavy Russian accent. "We were the ones who brought you and your friends here."  
  
Draco smiled. "I wish I'd been awake," he said. "Are all ... are all Dragon Riders so ... so ..."  
  
"Beautiful? Yes Draco. You see, dragons are great lovers of beautiful things. They are, after all, the most wonderful of God's creations ... you have only to see a dragon soaring through the twilit sky, to appreciate what a beautiful thing a dragon is. Dragons worship beauty ... they see it all around them, and they respond to beautiful things. We can control them, I mean ... really control them, through their thoughts. We can see through their eyes when we fly with them. Only the beautiful can do that."  
  
"Do you think I ..." began Draco.  
  
"There have been very few male Dragon Riders in history," said Tatiana. "Who knows, you may be one of the lucky ones."  
  
"Certainly he is handsome," said Iselda. Draco blushed. "He has great potential ... and such hair as I have never seen."  
  
"Ach ... they will not notice his hair," said Tatiana. "He will be wearing a helmet."  
  
"You mean ..."  
  
"If you want to come with me ... you may," said Tatiana. "It is your decision to make."  
  
"Would I ever?"  
  
"I thought you might say that," smiled Tatiana.  
  
"What about my Father?" asked Draco, suspiciously.  
  
Tatiana grinned again. "Do not think I would not have cleared such a thing with him first," she said, smiling. "I have your Father wrapped around my little finger... and besides, it was he who approached me first. He spoils you, Draco ... you should be very grateful to him."  
  
Draco thought of the bruising that was still painfully evident across his back and chest, and decided to say nothing.  
  
"You will need to be dressed properly," said Tatiana. "Come ... we will find you a suit."  
  
**************  
  
Harry and Hermione had their lunch brought up to them again, and again, they ate out on the balcony, this time with a large sunshade to shield them from the fearsome midday rays. It was an impressive spread, no less, with a fish starter, some spicy local dish with crunchy vegetables and chunks of sizzling beef, and fruits and cheeses to finish off. Both of them were once again very hungry, and both ate well.  
  
"I feel so fat," moaned Hermione, putting her knife and fork together on the plate.  
  
"You don't look it," said Harry, smiling at her.  
  
"You would say that," said Hermione. "You're a man ... you're duty bound to say that. Besides, if you had agreed with me, I'd have been technically entitled to knock your teeth out with a croquet mallet."  
  
"Sounds nasty," said Harry. "We don't have any croquet mallets ... do we?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "I'd have used something else," she said. "There's plenty of stuff around here that would do. That Grecian urn, for instance," she pointed to it. It was mounted on a pedestal just inside.  
  
"How much does a Grecian urn?" asked Harry, grinning.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"Forget it ... it was a crap joke," said Harry.  
  
"I quite like your jokes," said Hermione.  
  
"I'll tell you another ... if you'd like," said Harry, looking hopeful. Hermione nodded her agreement. "Okay," he went on. "The head of McDonalds goes to speak to God, and he asks if God would like to do a sponsorship deal, whereby, in the Lord's Prayer, instead of where it says 'give us this day our daily bread,' God changes it to 'give us this day our Big Mac.' Anyway, this guy is offering a load of money, and so God agrees," Harry paused for breath. "Then after, God goes to speak to Jesus and St. Peter and everybody else, and he sits them all down, and says; 'Guys ... I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that for changing a line in the Lord's Prayer, we get fifty million pounds a year. The bad news is ... we have to lose the contract with Hovis.'"  
  
Hermione smiled. "That wasn't a crap joke at all," she said. "It was just ... stunningly average."  
  
"It's nice to know I'm appreciated," said Harry. "Have you heard the one about the box of cornflakes?"  
  
Hermione shook her head.  
  
"I'll tell you next week, it's a serial."  
  
"Harry ..."  
  
"How about the one with the hedgehogs and the Robin Reliant?" asked Harry.  
  
"Harry ... please ..."  
  
"How do you get two whales in a Mini?"  
  
"I don't know," sighed Hermione.  
  
"Drive down the M4!"   
  
"One more joke, and I really will smack you in the gob with that bloody urn," said Hermione. Harry shut up.  
  
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes ... before Harry spoke again.  
  
"What are we going to do all afternoon?" he asked.  
  
Hermione shrugged. "We could sit and admire the view and chat," she said. "We could read some books."  
  
"I'm bored," said Harry.  
  
"You only just finished eating."  
  
"I don't get bored when I'm eating," said Harry. "Besides, I thought you said all the books were racist, or something?"  
  
"Some of them, yeah," said Hermione. "Besides, I don't feel much like reading this afternoon. It's far too hot."  
  
"What we need is a swimming pool," said Harry. "I mean, we have a very nice bathroom, but it just isn't the same."  
  
Hermione nodded. Someone, somewhere in the castle was playing music. "Harry," she said, looking up at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Isn't there an old gramophone inside?"  
  
"I think so ... why?"  
  
"Come with me ... I have an idea."  
  
**************  
  
Getting kitted up to meet the dragons seemed to be a very laborious, time consuming process. There was a pair of flame retardant trousers, which came down to just below his knees, and seemed to be made out of chamois leather, the kind Draco had seen Simpkins use to polish the cars at home. Then there were the thick soled dragon hide boots, and then chamois vest ... over which he donned the silvery armour. This hung down to just below his waist, like a breastplate, and then the helmet. He also had to make sure he was carrying absolutely nothing that could possibly catch fire ... which meant no matches, cigarettes, cans of petrol and so on. Draco was not carrying any of these things anyway. Tatiana looked at the bruises on his back with interest, but said nothing.  
  
He checked himself out in their mirror. He looked just like the old pictures he had seen. There was an insignia on his chest.  
  
"What does that mean?" asked Draco.  
  
"That is the Silver Serpent," said Tatiana. "I have one, too. It is the name of the magical society of which we are a part. It was founded many hundreds of years ago by Salazar Slytherin ... and it still exists to this day."  
  
Draco would have said 'cool' ... but he didn't especially think it was anymore.  
  
"You look very dapper," said Tatiana. "Of course, a hundred years ago you would have carried a shield and a sword when you went into battle. Such conventions are rarely observed anymore. Besides, a dragon is such a fearsome weapon, anything more was merely an extravagance. Follow me, Draco."  
  
She led him back out into the room where the dragons were kept. Each of them was dozing on the floor, and each was being continually tended to by the army of workers, ferrying bucket upon bucket of water to the dragons to cool them down. The heat was intense, and Draco found himself sweating profusely underneath the many layers of thick clothing he was now wearing. As they had done before, each and every one of them stopped to stare in their direction. Tatiana spread her arms wide, and motioning Draco to do the same, bowed.  
  
The entire company fell silent.  
  
Tatiana now spoke in Russian ... words which Draco could not understand. As soon as she had finished, the workers down below erupted in a riot of babble, and then scattered. Some of them seemed to be heading for cover ... others were moving heavy chains and manacles around the floor ... still others had erected ladders up the heaving sides of one of the dragons, and were carrying some sort of saddle arrangement up it, which was duly lashed onto it.  
  
"Would you like to wake the dragon, Draco?" asked Tatiana, turning to him.  
  
"How?" asked Draco.  
  
"You must sing to it," said Tatiana. "Any song or tune you like. You can even make one up should you wish. But it must be a beautiful song ... you must not sing of sadness or hardship."  
  
"I can't think of anything," said Draco. "Perhaps you should ..."  
  
"Very well," said Tatiana. "Follow me ... do exactly as I do and you will not disturb them."  
  
"Why mustn't I ..."  
  
"They were all once strong men and women," said Tatiana. "But so fearsome is the heat, so dangerous the work, and so arduous the tasks, most of them are not entirely of their right minds."  
  
"But that's horrible," said Draco, all the while taking care to tread exactly in her footsteps.  
  
"Such is the lot of the dragon carers," said Tatiana. "Believe me ... there are many people who would queue up for such work. They are paid well, and fed. When they retire they will receive a generous pension through your Father's goodness, and will want for nothing."  
  
The workers watched them, beady eyed as they walked slowly across the floor to where their dragon was lying. His tail was swishing gently from side to side ... the hard, club-like end narrowly missing an attendant.  
  
"His name is Bellerophon," said Tatiana. "He is the oldest, and the wisest of our dragons, and the best natured. He is my steed."  
  
Draco reached out a hand to stroke Bellerophon on the head, but an attendant moved to block him.  
  
"Not to touch, Master," he said, in faltering English.  
  
"Ivan is right," said Tatiana. "You are not wearing gloves, and the natural oils present in the skin of humans can make dragons very sick. You would also suffer first degree burns. And should you anger him, he has a bite pressure of nearly fifty thousand pounds per square inch. He could bite through a car as though it was an apple. Dragon riding is not to be taken lightly. It is a vocation, and you must be prepared for it. Ivan, will you help Draco onto Bellerophon?"  
  
Ivan took Draco by the hand, and led him over to the ladder.  
  
"Ivan is our most experienced attendant," said Tatiana. "He has worked with dragons all his life, and he knows Bellerophon."  
  
Ivan was a withered, elderly looking man with a shock of bright white hair, sunken eyes and thin, trembling lips. He was stick thin, and the outlines of his ribs could be seen through his chest ... he walked with a stoop.  
  
"Please to mount the dragon," said Ivan, steadying it. The mighty beast did not stir from its slumber.  
  
Draco put one hand on the ladder, and began to climb it, taking great care not to let himself touch the dragon. The saddle had been fixed into place on the dragon's back ... he noticed there were two seats, and as he assumed he'd be riding pillion, he made for the back one. He curled his feet up underneath him, and held on tightly. The saddle was rising and falling in tune with the gentle breathing of the creature.  
  
Tatiana now walked round to the front of the dragon, and kneeled before it. Ivan watched from a distance. She began to sing. Draco could not tell what language she was singing in ... it didn't sound like Russian, and it certainly wasn't English ... but a finer singer he had never heard. Her voice was beautiful, smooth and emotive. The tune haunting and strangely calming. Draco leaned forwards, and his helmet slipped off. He picked it up again, and jammed it back on his head.  
  
The dragon stirred ... Draco, suddenly terrified, held on to the sides of the saddle as the vast body beneath him began to move. The wings unfurled, and flapped once ... twice, the rush of air felt deliciously cool against his bare arms.  
  
Then, to his amazement, he heard a deep, throaty, rumbling voice.  
  
"Who rides me?"  
  
"Bellerophon ... it is I, Tatiana, and your Master's son, Draco."  
  
"Tatiana. You are welcome," growled the dragon. "Draco bares our Latin name. I can sense his presence. He, too, is worthy to ride."  
  
Tatiana looked up at Draco. "He says it is okay," she smiled at him. "Bellerophon, I will mount you now ... then will you take us out?"  
  
"Where is our destination?" growled Bellerophon.  
  
"I would like you to fly towards the Devil's Spine," said Tatiana. "Then, we shall see."  
  
"Devil's Spine is beautiful," growled Bellerophon, happily. "I shall be honoured to bear you there."  
  
Tatiana walked round to the ladder, and then climbed up onto Bellerophon's back. "You had better move onto the front seat," she said to Draco. "That is, if you'd like to drive."  
  
"Can I?"  
  
"I expect Bellerophon will let you," said Tatiana. "You will need this whip," she handed it to him, and Draco took it, a little uncertainly.  
  
"I didn't know they could talk," said Draco, turning round in his seat.  
  
Bellerophon growled. "I am also fluent in Arabic, Russian, and Turkish. And I can hear every word you say."  
  
"Don't scold ... Draco is just curious," said Tatiana. "Bellerophon. Take flight, if you please."  
  
"Very well," growled Bellerophon. "Hold tight please, Draco."  
  
With those words, and Draco now clinging desperately onto the handles at the side of his saddle, Bellerophon took off ... his vast leathery wings beating slowly and rhythmically, fanning both the riders as they sat astride his back. Draco could hear shouts from the attendants down below, running footsteps, and somewhere, the clanging sound of heavy machinery being operated ... chains rattling, and then bright sunlight flooded the chamber as the heavy doors were heaved open. Bellerophon spread his wings ... and then they were flying properly. Out of the doors ... the ground dropped away, and below Draco could see down into the depths of the gorge, where there was a tiny river, looking insignificant, like a stream, flowing along. He thought he could see movement on the riverbanks.  
  
"Tricorns," growled Bellerophon, as if sensing his thoughts somehow. "They roam freely throughout the gorge ... it is so inaccessible that men rarely tread there, and the creatures may live as they will."  
  
He wheeled around to the right, and now they were flying along the southern flank of the castle, past row upon row of windows, and Draco could see how precarious their position was. If somebody fell out of the window, there was a drop of at least eight hundred feet awaiting them. They flew round a tall tower at the western end of the castle, and then Bellerophon caught an updraft, and they glided slowly upwards into the bright blue sky. Draco could have sworn he spotted people at one of the tower windows, watching him incredulously.  
  
**************  
  
"Well," said George, as they watched Bellerophon's vast bulk disappear into the distance. "There was me getting all worked up because a beautiful, blonde saviour was coming our way."  
  
"I thought there were two of them," said Ron. "There was another, smaller one sitting at the front."  
  
"I never knew people could ride dragons," George went on. "I'd love to be able to do that."  
  
Fred looked up. "There used to be such things as Dragon Riders, you know," he said. "They used to work for You-Know-Who."  
  
George gave him a very odd look. "How on Earth do you know that?" he asked.  
  
"You should listen to Charlie when he comes home sometimes," said Fred. "It'd do you a power of good."  
  
"You are not my brother!"  
  
"That, for instance," Fred went on, quite clearly unperturbed at having just been disowned. "That was a Caucasian Black ... they're very rare."  
  
"Where's Caucasia then?" asked Ron.  
  
"It's that little bit in between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea," said Fred. "It must be where we are."  
  
"Fred ... I shall tell Percy you're acting your age!" threatened George.  
  
"Oh grow up, you silly sod," said Fred. "We're probably in imminent danger of our lives ... and all you want to do is lark around!"  
  
"That is so not true!" scowled George. "I can be just as serious as you about this bloody shambles. And how come they still haven't brought us any lunch?"  
  
"Is that all you think about?" asked Fred. "Where you're next meal is coming from?"  
  
"Better than moping around the room going; 'oh my God, we're going to die'," snapped George.  
  
"Well fine then," said Fred. "We'll see what ends up being more important. Ron ... I trust I have your full support in this unpleasant business."  
  
Ron said nothing.  
  
"Ronald ... are you listening to me?" snapped Fred. "Are you on my side, or not?"  
  
"Don't listen to him," snarled George. "He's just upset because he can't take being the loser!"  
  
"Ignore your so called brother," said Fred. "He's just upset because secretly he knows that he's peddling a load of balls."  
  
"Oh shut up!" yelled Ron, his face going bright purple. Fred and George stopped staring daggers at one another, and looked up.  
  
"We're trapped, okay?" Ron went on. "Live with it! If you keep bloody arguing, someone is going to get hurt ... and it isn't going to be me! Just calm down. Something will come ... something will get us out of this mess."  
  
"That's easy for you to say," murmured George. "I think we should rush the guards, then run for it. There's cars outside, Fred can drive!"  
  
"We could try," said Fred. "There's nothing to lose."  
  
"You saw the guards," said Ron. "They have guns and stuff. We'd not have a chance."  
  
"I reckon we would," said George. "We'll have the element of surprise! We can overcome them."  
  
"We don't have any clothes apart from these ... things," said Ron. "We don't even have any shoes. We'll be massacred."  
  
Fred shook his head. "I think not," he said. "I have a cunning plan. Now listen very carefully ... I shall say this only once."  
  
**************  
Bellerophon set down atop one of the peaks. Draco, when he finally plucked up the courage to open his eyes found himself looking out over a stunning vista, rocky crags stretching away into the distance ... deep, forest-filled valleys.  
  
"This is Devil's Spine," growled Bellerophon. "We shall not be disturbed here."  
  
Tatiana said to Draco. "If you want to take charge of a dragon ... you must first bond with it. That means you must establish a link ... a pathway of thoughts. It is not too difficult. Bellerophon ... will you help?"  
  
"It means I will no longer be bonded to you, Tatiana," growled Bellerophon. "Are you sure this is what you want?"  
  
Tatiana nodded. "You knew this day must come Bellerophon. You know your destiny is to be Draco's."  
  
Draco pricked up his ears. "No ... really, that's okay," he said.  
  
"Draco ... he is yours already," said Tatiana. "He was born on the same day as you, to within an hour. I am merely his guardian until you are deemed fit to claim him. Your Father has decreed this time has come ... otherwise you would not have been brought here."  
  
"She is right, Draco," said Bellerophon. "It has always been my destiny to serve you. Even I knew this day must come. Well ... Tatiana ... it has been a great pleasure."  
  
"For me too," said Tatiana. "I have enjoyed it greatly, these last sixteen years."  
  
"Tatiana," said Draco. "Please, honestly, I don't want ... I mean, I'll be going back to Hogwarts soon ... where would I keep him?"  
  
"Draco ... you must take him," said Tatiana. "Father has decreed it to be so. This is my present to you ... an everlasting token of my love for you."  
  
Draco turned round in his saddle. "What did you say?" he asked.  
  
"Draco," she removed her helmet. "Do you truly not recognise me? Look closer."  
  
Draco obeyed. He stared right into her eyes ... wondering what he was looking for. Her eyes were a cold steely grey, a mass of shimmering silvery blonde hair, like his, atop her head. She looked ... she looked.  
  
"Mother," he said. "You look just like my Mother."  
  
"Look closer," whispered Tatiana, leaning so close to him that their noses were almost touching. "Who else do you see?"  
  
Draco saw it, in a flash ... there was something, a spark in her eyes.  
  
"Me," he breathed.  
  
Tatiana nodded. "Did you never know, Draco, that you are a twin?"  
  
**************  
"No ... take your hands off, please?"  
  
"I said I don't want any!"  
  
"Let me through ... I'm a British citizen!"  
  
Gwyneth Jones, her old rucksack from her student days slung across her back, fought her way through the crowd of vendors besieging the front of the Terminal Building. The decision she had made had been a tough one ... she had agonised over it, before deciding that her hunch must surely be correct ... they must surely have been taken here. It had taken some persuading to make Professor McGonagall take her side, and as for Dumbledore, she had not even told him. Still, as she had told herself time and time again on the flight ... Snape was at Hogwarts ... Snape was a teacher ... surely he could help out.  
  
She had packed a few things into her bag, and left Hogsmeade on the London train, with the intention of catching a plane to Azerbaijan. The savings she had left over from her days at the Institute had bought her passage as far as Baku ... where she had arranged to meet an old friend from university, who now worked for the Azerbaijani State Department of Magic, at the Baku Sheraton.  
  
She flagged down one of the incongruous bright yellow Ladas that served as taxis to take her into the city centre ... a thirty minute hair raising ride on a newly built expressway, past the drab, grey, Soviet-era apartment blocks, dodging ancient trucks belching choking diesel fumes into the atmosphere, and the occasional bus. Gwyneth sat on the back seat, surrounded by her bags, clinging on for dear life, and occasionally offering up a muttered prayer.  
  
The Sheraton turned out to be an unattractive building on Baku's seafront. It was separated from the sea itself by a four-lane dual carriageway, along which traffic poured ceaselessly. There were families relaxing on the beach on the other side of the road, and far out at sea, the faintly surreal spectacle of the oil rigs and pipelines supplying the coastal refineries.  
  
Gwyneth left her bags in her room, and went straight downstairs to the bar to see if her friend had turned up yet. To her surprise, he had, and was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of whisky. He looked up as she came in.  
  
"Gwyneth!" he said, rising to his feet and enveloping her in a hug so tight she felt she could not breathe. "Long time no see ... how are you?"  
  
"I'm ... fine, Ishmael," lied Gwyneth. "A little shaken up, perhaps."  
  
"Ah .. yes, quite understandable," said Ishmael. "You ... believe you have a theory for me?"  
  
Gwyneth nodded ... she sat down on a stool next to him, and ordered a double vodka. "I was thinking," she said. "Tell me what you know about Dragon Riders."  
  
Ishmael raised his eyebrows. "They were an elite sect, linked to the Silver Serpent cult back in the seventies ... before they fell in with You-Know-Who, who used them for nefarious purposes. They were all captured and put on trial after You-Know-Who's downfall."  
  
"Didn't they used to ride Caucasian Blacks?" asked Gwyneth. "You know ... really big dragons, vast wingspans."  
  
Ishmael nodded. "They were based up in the highlands," he said. "You-Know-Who was able to use them for long range attack missions against our side."  
  
"Tell me," Gwyneth went on. "Have there been any reports, of anything, any kind of unusual aerial activity, coming out of the highland regions?"  
  
Ishmael looked thoughtful for a moment, then he said. "What kinds of reports, specifically?"  
  
"Dragon type reports ... villages torched, murders, you know, like in the old days."  
  
Ishmael continued to look thoughtful. "Now that you come to mention it," he said. "About fifteen months ago. It was in the International Magical Tribune ... something about an entire Muggle village razed to the ground from the air."  
  
"Where?" asked Gwyneth.  
  
"A tiny place, up in the mountains," said Ishmael. "I think it was called Zyrnel. Fifty people made homeless. The government kicked up quite a stink about it ... but Zyrnel is in Naxcivan ... and that's too far away for them to really bother with. I think nothing more came of it. There is enough trouble in Nagorno-Karabakh, and the Armenians control most of the area. It is a virtual war zone, nobody goes there ... very isolated, wild country. If somebody was getting up to something in Azerbaijan, Naxcivan would be the place to do it."  
  
"Naxcivan," said Gwyneth. "That's where the note said."  
  
"Note?"  
  
"Ishmael ... I am here, somewhat incognito, because I want to track down some people who have been kidnapped ... my ... well, you remember Sirius?"  
  
Ishmael nodded. "Well," he said. "Did he not end up in Azkaban?"  
  
"Sirius is one of them, and yes ... he did. He's innocent though, and he's out now, working at Hogwarts with me," said Gwyneth. "The others are students, from Hogwarts ... Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."  
  
Ishmael raised his eyebrows. "Harry Potter has been taken?" he said. "Then the situation is indeed grave. The name Malfoy rings a bell too. I believe the family owns property in the area."  
  
"Property?"  
  
"A substantial estate, actually," said Ishmael. "Several hundred hectares of land, in some of the most hard to reach terrain in the country ... up in the Zangezurskiy Mountains, in Naxcivan, near the Armenian border. Nobody knows what is going on up there ... Malfoy is very secretive, but the business seems to be legitimate ... some sort of research project, financed, as far as we can make out, by very powerful Magical connections in the United States. You have heard of the Silvermann family?"  
  
Gwyneth nodded. "They control stakes in several large Muggle companies," she said.  
  
Ishmael nodded. "And they are pouring money into Malfoy Incorporated Industries," he said. "Whatever Malfoy is getting up to in the mountains, he is certainly being funded well."  
  
"Suspicious," said Gwyneth. "Ishmael, do you think there is any possibility that Malfoy may be training Dragon Riders?"  
  
"I suppose ... it could be done," said Ishmael. "There are plenty of Caucasian Blacks up in the mountains. Around five hundred, I believe, not that anybody has ever been able to do an accurate count."  
  
"That's what I suspected," said Gwyneth. "Ishmael ... I need to get to Naxcivan, and quickly. I believe time may be short."  
  
**************  
Ron gave the bell pull a sharp tug, and somewhere, they could hear the sound of it ringing in the distance. He gave Fred and George, who were standing behind the door with the large shield from the wall, a thumbs up. Then he jumped down from the bed, ran over to the wall, and took down the spear. It was very bendy and whippy in his hands. The metal tip struck the floor with a harsh clang, causing all three boys to jump.  
  
"Keep it down," hissed George. "We don't want to let them think there's anything wrong."  
  
Ron nodded, and hoisted the spear up onto his shoulder, imagining as he did so how it might have been used in the past ... perhaps by a Zulu tribesman, defending his homeland ...  
  
"Quit daydreaming and hold the spear already," whispered Fred. Ron could hear footsteps outside, and the sound of someone talking loudly in Russian. Next thing, the jangling of keys, and the rattling of the lock.  
  
"Ready?" whispered Ron. The others nodded.  
  
The door swung open, and Leonid, the man who brought them their meals, stepped into the room.  
  
"What can I do for ..." he was cut short by Fred and George, who slammed the shield down on his head. There was a sickening crunch, and Leonid fell to the floor, quite unconscious.  
  
"We'd better tie him up," said Fred. "Ron ... is there anything we could use?"  
  
"Bedclothes," said Ron, dropping the spear in his haste. He tugged the sheets off the bed, and with a great deal of effort, they succeeded in tearing them to strips, with which they then proceeded to tie up Leonid.  
  
"He's carrying a dagger," said George, tugging it free from the man's belt. "We can use that."  
  
Ron finished binding the man's hands together, and stood up to admire his handiwork. "That should keep him busy for an hour or so," he said.  
  
"Come on then," said Fred, grabbing him by his arm, and pulling him from the room.  
  
They descended the spiral staircase to the bottom of the tower ... where they found another door, mercifully unlocked. Ron pushed it open slowly. The corridor was deserted. Treading on tiptoe, they moved slowly along it, taking care to keep flat against the walls. Somewhere nearby, music was playing very loudly.  
  
They turned a corner, and found themselves walking along a balcony, surrounding a pleasant looking courtyard, with fountains playing quietly in the bottom, and small trees. The music was slightly louder here.  
  
"This is rather nice," said George.  
  
"Shut up," said Fred. "We don't want to be seen."  
  
Ron, however, had turned a sickened shade of white. He was pointing to something on the other side of the courtyard. Fred and George followed his finger.  
  
"Too late," he said. "I think we already have been."  
  
There was a man sitting on a chair, outside one of the doors, and he appeared to be staring right in their direction.  
  
George shook his head. "No," he said, pointing. "Don't be daft ... he's asleep."  
  
"Should we see if he ... perhaps he can help us?" asked Ron.  
  
"Don't be so bloody naïve," said Fred. "He might have another one of those daggers though ... we can always use a couple of extra weapons."  
  
They crept round to the other side of the balcony. He was snoring quite loudly ... and sure enough, there was a dagger placed on the floor at his feet.  
  
"Silly sod," said Ron, picking it up. There was also a bundle of keys dangling from his hand, jangling slightly as they swung from side to side.  
  
Now they heard footsteps, down in the courtyard below ... shouted orders. All three boys froze ... had the alarm been raised? Or was this something different?  
  
"What do we do?" hissed Fred.  
  
George smiled. "We duck into a room and wait for them to go past," he said.  
  
"Well, hurry up then," said Ron. "It looks like they're coming upstairs ... oh hell ... George ... hurry up, they're Death Eaters."  
  
George's face paled. He pushed the door to the room the man was guarding ... but it would not open. It was locked.  
  
"Grab the keys!" squeaked Ron. He could hear their footsteps on the stairs now. They were coming up.  
  
Fred snatched the keys from the guard's hand, and tossed them to George who selected a key at random, and shoved it rudely into the lock. Miraculously, it opened ... the door swung open, and they crowded inside, slamming the door shut behind them, they leant against it, breathing heavily.  
  
"What the hell?" a voice said. It was a voice they recognised well. Ron, Fred and George looked up.  
  
"You might have a bit more consideration," said Hermione. Harry had collapsed in her arms.  
  
**************  
"I can't have a sister," said Draco. "I would have known about it."  
  
Tatiana shook her head. "I didn't know I had a brother until a few months ago," she said, smiling. "Father told me you would be coming to stay for a while. He told me we were very much alike."  
  
"He never told me anything," said Draco. "He hates me ... that's why."  
  
Tatiana shook her head. "You know that isn't true," she said. "Nothing can ever make a Father hate his son. Father loves you very much ... as he does me. You know that he would do anything for you?"  
  
"You don't know the half of it," said Draco, glowering.  
  
"Don't look like that," smiled Tatiana. "You are very handsome ... I don't want an ugly brother."  
  
Draco grinned. "How come," he began, "how come you live here then?" he asked.  
  
"Father did not want twins," said Tatiana. "The Malfoys have only ever had sons ... for the last fifty generations there has been only a male bloodline ... only sons. The purest bloodline in Europe ... undiluted since the days of Slytherin himself. Look at our family tree ... you will see I am right. When we were born, he was consumed with shame ... and he could not look at me. He knew he must love me, as he would love you, but he could not risk the shame of the family. That is why he sent me here, and I was raised by nursemaids. He came to visit every so often, he bought me lovely gifts, and he always told me how much he missed me."  
  
"He was lying," said Draco. "He's a hateful man! I hate him."  
  
"Draco, please don't say things like that," said Tatiana, reaching forwards to put her hand on his shoulder. As she touched his skin, Draco felt suddenly warm inside, as though something beautiful and life giving was flowing into him. "He may have a temper, but you know what he does is best for you, and he thinks only of your future."  
  
"Yeah, my future as a Death Eater," said Draco. "That's why he brought he here ... to join his soppy little secret society."  
  
Tatiana shook her head. "No, Draco," she said. "That is partly the reason ... but he brought you here that you might find your vocation. He brought you here that you might become like me, a Dragon Rider."  
  
"And what do Dragon Riders do?" snarled Draco. "Fly about torching villages ... murdering people? Well, I don't know what I want to do with my life yet ... but I'm damn sure I don't want to be a murderer."  
  
"You do not want to serve your Father?" asked Tatiana, her voice suddenly crestfallen.  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
"What has he done ... to put such sadness and contempt in you, Draco?" asked Tatiana, leaning forwards, her voice suddenly full of concern.  
  
"He hurt me," said Draco. "A lot."  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"Beatings and such," Draco paused. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of Bellerophon's breathing beneath him, and he knew the dragon was listening to him. He looked up into Tatiana's eyes ... the more he looked at her ... the more of himself he saw in her.  
  
"That is wrong," said Tatiana. "Do you speak the truth? Is that where the bruises I saw came from?"  
  
"Of course," said Draco.  
  
"No," said Tatiana. "He should not have done that. You are right. I am sorry, Draco ... he must have hurt you greatly for you to have turned against him so much."  
  
"He never ...?"  
  
"He has never so much as had a cross word for me," said Tatiana. "I have always seen him as the kindest, gentlest man. He helps me when he is here. He gives me things to do. It was he who suggested I train as a Dragon Rider."  
  
Draco struggled to avoid her gaze. "You believe me, don't you?" he asked.  
  
Tatiana nodded. "I always believe you," she said. "I know when you are telling the truth. Do you not feel our bond?"  
  
Draco shook his head.  
  
"Muggle twins have an exceptionally strong telepathic bond," said Tatiana. "Magical twins, like us, have an even stronger link. We know some of each other's thoughts, Draco ... at least, I know yours. You are telling the truth."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Draco.  
  
"There is nothing whatsoever to be sorry about," said Tatiana. "For a Father to beat his son, that can never be right. Perhaps I should speak to him ..."  
  
"Don't," said Draco. "It won't help."  
  
"It might do," said Tatiana. "He has always listened to me. Bellerophon ... what say you?"  
  
The dragon shifted his weight underneath them, causing them both to grip onto the sides of the saddle for fear of falling off. Then he spoke. "I too believe Draco," he growled. "We are linked now. He speaks the truth, and it pains me to know it."  
  
Draco smiled. "Thank you, Bellerophon," he said.  
  
"I suppose you would like to return to the castle?" began Tatiana. "We can always begin your lessons another day."  
  
"I won't be here long," said Draco. "Let's do it now."  
  
Tatiana looked somewhat doubtful, as though she was seriously considering flying them straight home. Bellerophon, on the other hand, growled. "It is well. Draco, listen to my words, and pay great heed to them, for wise is the counsel of dragons. If you wish to fly me, you must know me first."  
  
"How do I do that?" asked Draco.  
  
"You must establish your part of the bond," said Bellerophon. "I am already linked to you in mind ... I accomplished this whilst you talked. Now you must do the same?"  
  
"How?" asked Draco. "Tell me how."  
  
"Close your eyes," said Bellerophon. "I want you to recover the memory of your birth."  
  
"I can't remember that!" scoffed Draco, opening his eyes hurriedly. "Nobody can!"  
  
"You can," said Bellerophon. "Everybody can. Remember the night your subconscious spoke to you in a dream?"  
  
"How can you possibly know about that?" asked Draco.  
  
"As I said, I have established my part of the Rider's bond," said Bellerophon. "I know you ... and now it is your job to do the same. Your subconscious told you that the brain is infinitely more powerful than you give it credit for ... indeed, you humans use barely ten percent of its capacity, whereas we dragons use ninety. Believe me, Draco ... you can recall the moment of your birth. It is within you. You have only to unlock the memory. Close your eyes, and try."  
  
Draco took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, trying desperately to think, to remember. But it was no good. There was no memory ...  
  
He felt a blinding white light around him, and he opened his eyes, but he was not sitting on Bellerophon's back ... he seemed to be curled up, and the light seemed to be getting stronger. Draco knew it was blinding him, but he couldn't close his eyes ... and then the light seemed to swamp him ... as if he was drowning in it. And then he heard the sound of crying, of a pair of lungs being used for the first time ... a baby bawling.  
  
Vague shapes were swimming in his head. He could make out something coming closer to him ... a human face. It seemed to be looking at him, and then it spoke.  
  
"Congratulations, Master," it said. "You have a healthy boy."  
  
Other vague faces were moving around ... he felt cold, and somebody was wrapping him in a blanket.  
  
"Is he all right?" another voice asked.  
  
"Toes and fingers ... all correct," said the first voice. "You are lucky ... for a child to be born so early and survive ... we must incubate him directly."  
  
He felt safe ... safer than he had done before. But as he tried desperately to hold onto the memory, he felt it fading, and he felt himself once again bathed in the warm Asian sunlight. He opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back on the saddle, with Tatiana watching over him.  
  
"It is done," said Bellerophon. "The most primal of memories. Draco ... the capacity was within you. You had only to unlock it."  
  
Draco sat up, rubbing his head, which felt oddly sore. "Is that it?" he asked.  
  
"The bonding process is complete," said Bellerophon. "See the world through my eyes."  
  
As he said those words, Draco felt something inside him shudder ... and next thing he knew, he was looking at the world anew, through Bellerophon's senses. A cacophony of sights, sounds and smells. It was amazing.  
  
"Cool," he breathed.  
  
"That will do for now," said Bellerophon. With a jolt, Draco found himself back in his own body. "It is possible for humans to suffer sensory overload if I do that too much. In time you will get used to it."  
  
"What would happen if my senses did overload?" asked Draco.  
  
Bellerophon growled again, and a jet of fire spewed forth from his nostrils, setting light to a clump of bushes about twenty feet away. "You would die," he said. "To truly control me, to truly know me, you must ride the dragon's mind, as well as the body. It is something I shall teach you. For now, we shall stick to the basics."  
  
"So how do I do it normally?" asked Draco. "Do I use the whip or something?"  
  
"I wouldn't," said Bellerophon. "The whip is for ceremonial purposes. Anybody who tries to harm a dragon would not live long."  
  
Tatiana leant over him. "Draco," she said. "I want you to fly Bellerophon over to that other peak, in the distance, across that valley."  
  
"But how?"  
  
"Think it, Draco ... think yourself there."  
  
Draco closed his eyes again, and the movie camera of his mind's eye showed Bellerophon lifting off the ground. He opened his eyes again. Bellerophon was hovering a few feet above the ground, his wings beating in the air.  
  
"Very good," smiled Tatiana. "Don't stop now. Imagine, without closing your eyes."  
  
Draco tried to visualise Bellerophon flying through the air ... and to his amazement, found that he could ... and then Bellerophon started to fly ... he soared upwards into the deep, aquamarine sky, all the while Draco thinking him higher.  
  
"Here is an updraft," growled Bellerophon. "Hold very tight, this may be a bit turbulent."  
  
The dragon's whole body seemed to shake as Bellerophon's wings caught the wind, and now they were gliding ... a thousand feet or more above the towering peaks. Draco could see the towers of the castle in the distance, and far below, what looked like the remains of a village.  
  
"What happened there?" he called out.  
  
"Forest fire!" Tatiana yelled back.  
  
Bellerophon banked sharply so as to give them a better view. There were charred and ruined houses, shops, and what looked like a school. In the streets were battered and gutted cars. It couldn't have been home to more than four or five hundred people, tops. Draco wondered what had become of them all.  
  
"It was called Zyrnel," said Tatiana, as Bellerophon flew skywards once more. "A great tragedy ... the people were re-housed, and chose not to return to their village."  
  
"They didn't want to come back?" asked Draco, puzzled ... to him it was incomprehensible how anybody could not want to live in a place so beautiful.  
  
"There is no work for them here!" called Tatiana. "It is better for them to live in Naxcivan itself, where there is work, than up here in the mountains. Here life is beautiful, but life is also hard."  
  
Draco turned his gaze away from the ruined village. He could see sheep grazing on a nearby hillside.  
  
"Someone still lives here!" he yelled.  
  
"That is Hamud!" shouted Tatiana. "He is an old shepherd, and he remains here only because he has nowhere else to go. He sells the wool to Father, for cloaks and things. I don't see him walking with the sheep today."  
  
Bellerophon again banked so that Draco could see. The sheep took fright and scattered as the dragon's shadow passed over them.  
  
"Once our kind would have killed and eaten those sheep," growled Bellerophon. "They are stupid ... woolly minded, and not hard to catch. But now such times are past, and we are fed well by our human friends."  
  
There was a little wooden hut standing isolated on the ridge, which Draco assumed must be the shepherd's home. There was no sign of life however. Tatiana looked slightly worried.  
  
"It would be bad if something had happened to Hamud," she said. "He is our eyes and ears ... if the government comes up here."  
  
They flew over the top of the ridge, and now were flying very low over what looked like some sort of plantation ... there were rows of little plants spread out beneath them.  
  
"Does he grow vegetables too?" asked Draco.  
  
Tatiana shook her head. "No ... this is Father's land, and his crop. Hamud warns us if government men are coming up here, or people from the Magical Authorities. This crop is not entirely legitimate."  
  
Draco stared at the little plants. "What are they?" he called. He had a feeling he already knew.  
  
"Funny you should ask!" replied Tatiana. "That is Dracaena Draco ... technically, it is illegal, but such things are relative in these parts. Bellerophon, I am worried about Hamud ... will you set down by the hut?"  
  
"Ask Draco," growled Bellerophon. "We are bonded now."  
  
"Draco, I want you to land briefly!" called Tatiana.  
  
Draco nodded. "I'll do my best," he said, visualising as he did the dragon touching down next to the hut. He could have sworn he heard Bellerophon's gritty voice inside his head, saying. 'Very well, Draco,' and the next thing he knew, they had dropped from the sky like a stone, and Bellerophon's claws dug into the dusty earth, and there was a jolt which threw Draco forwards.  
  
"You had better come as well," said Tatiana. "Hamud is an old friend of mine, and he wants to meet you."  
  
**************  
  
They laid Harry down on the floor, and brought him round by patting him gently on the cheeks a few times. Finally, he opened his eyes, blinking.  
  
"Can you hear me?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry blinked again. "Yeah ... no problems in that respect," he said. He reached out his hand, and gingerly touched Ron's face. Ron did not react.  
  
"You're real?"  
  
Ron nodded.  
  
"Not some sort of ghost then?"  
  
Ron shook his head.  
  
"What about Fred and George?"  
  
"They're as real as they'll ever be," said Ron, who was kneeling on the floor next to him. Hermione, Fred and George stood over them, looking concerned.  
  
"I'll be fine," said Harry. "Stop faffing about and try and think us out of this place."  
  
"That's just it," said Hermione. "We ... we don't actually know where we are," she looked slightly concerned by this. "We know we're in Lucius Malfoy's castle, but we don't actually have a clue where his castle is. Well, we do, but this doesn't look much like Gloucestershire. And you'll excuse me for saying that Chipping Sodbury probably isn't just over the next ridge."  
  
"This is Malfoy's pad?" asked Ron. "Wish I'd known that ... I'd have set fire to the place, burned it to the ground. It's more than that stinking family deserve," he almost spat this last sentence.  
  
Hermione shook her head painfully, remembering, of course, that Ron had no idea of the events that had transpired since his disappearance.  
  
"Don't knock Draco too hard," said Harry. "There's more to him than meets the eye."  
  
"I bet," snapped Ron.  
  
"Don't be cross, Ron," said Hermione. "Lucius Malfoy is still evil ... I think. We don't even know that Draco's here. We can still, well, commit arson if you really want to."  
  
"Won't do us much good," said Fred, who was standing in the doorway to the balcony, surveying the remains of their lunch hungrily. "Once we have escaped, assuming we can without being annihilated by all these Death Eaters that seem to be crawling around the place. We are still faced with the slightly tricky problem of exactly where we are ..."  
  
"There are Death Eaters?" asked Hermione.  
  
"We just saw some outside," said Ron. "We only just managed to avoid getting caught by them as well."  
  
"That puts a new complexion on matters," said Hermione. "We're stuck in some castle in the middle of nowhere, and there are Death Eaters roaming the place. We're basically buggered to kingdom come, aren't we?"  
  
"Yup," said George.  
  
"Well," Fred interrupted. "Not entirely. We think we might be somewhere in Caucasia."  
  
"And just where is Caucasia?" asked Harry, sitting up and rubbing his head, which was aching from all the wine he had been drinking.  
  
"Fred is bluffing," said George. "He doesn't have the foggiest where we are ..."  
  
"We're somewhere in between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea," said Fred.  
  
Hermione sighed. "Like that really helps," she said. "That puts us in any one of about five countries, most of which are at war with all the others."  
  
"Well ... at least we have a vague geographical idea," said Fred. "And as the sun set out that way," he pointed to the west. "Then that must be the way home."  
  
"So we follow the setting sun," said Harry. "Then where?"  
  
"Well, eventually we get to the Black Sea," said Fred. "Then, if memory serves ... it's Turkey, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, Germany, Austria, France, England ... problem solved."  
  
"Memory doesn't serve," said Hermione. "It's Austria, Germany ... actually ... sorry," she added, upon catching the withering look upon all their faces. "And how exactly are we supposed to get across six countries without any money and without speaking the language? Especially with you three dressed in those see-through nightgowns."  
  
"They are not see-through!" protested Ron. "And might I remind you, Hermione, that we still hate you for running off with Ferret Boy?"  
  
"Ron, shut up for one second!" shouted Hermione. "One ... they are see through ... two, nice pants ... three ... I'm not going into the whole Draco thing. I'm worried about him, and if you knew half of what Harry and I do, you'd be worried too."  
  
"So you're talking to her are you?" snarled Ron.  
  
Harry nodded. "Well, yeah," he said. "She was teaching me to dance, actually ... and we can see your underwear, incidentally."  
  
"Like you'd be looking! I do not believe this!" shouted Ron. "You're both sleeping with Draco! How long has this been going on?"  
  
"I resent that comment!" yelled Harry, getting to his feet. "I have not been shagging Draco Malfoy."  
  
"Says you!" retorted Ron.  
  
Hermione waded in, forcing both boys apart. "You both should be ashamed of yourselves!" she yelled. "You should be grateful you aren't dead right now!" she turned on Ron. "And you need to learn some respect for your friends!"  
  
"Excuse me for breathing!" snarled Ron. "I've been blown up, knocked around, had both my legs broken, and I've been cooped up in a tower room for the last two days with Laurel and Hardy here!"  
  
"We resent that comment, too," piped up George. "Can I ask you guys to stop biting ..." but he was drowned out by Harry.  
  
"Well, I've not been having a rosy time of it either!"  
  
"What ... not even with your sordid threesomes?" asked Ron. "I bet Draco is brilliant at ..."  
  
"Shut the fuck up!" screamed Fred.  
  
All three of them fell silent.  
  
"Might this be the time to remind you guys that there are Death Eaters outside, and that we are making just a teensy bit of a racket in here?" hinted George. "Now ... I'm not saying we should all kiss and make up ... in fact, I reckon if we ever get home, we've all got some talking to do, but please, let's at least try and put our heads together on this one?"  
  
"That's what I've been trying to say all along," said Hermione. "Five heads are better than two."  
  
"And three in a bed ..."  
  
"Shut up, Ron, before I hex you," said Harry.  
  
"This is all bloody Draco's fault," snapped Ron. "I'd like to wring his scrawny neck ..."  
  
"Ron ... pipe down," said Fred. "Just ... just don't bloody talk to one another for a while. Please, for all our sakes?"  
  
"I'll speak to you later," snarled Ron.  
  
"Happy to," retorted Harry.  
  
"Ron ... cool it," said Hermione. "We still haven't worked out how we're going to escape from this place."  
  
"Did I hear we ... what would I be doing escaping with a couple of sluts like you?"  
  
Harry let out a roar of rage, and flung himself forwards, catching Ron a glancing blow to the side of his head. Both boys went tumbling to the floor, Harry atop Ron.  
  
"Say ... that ... again!" yelled Harry, banging Ron's head repeatedly on the floor.  
  
"Fuck off and die, Potter!"  
  
"I might just do that!" snapped Harry. Hermione leapt forwards, and tried to grab him around the waist. "Leave it, Hermione ... this is personal," at which point Ron kicked him hard in the groin, and he collapsed, gasping in pain.  
  
Fred and George grabbed Ron by the arms, and hauled him to his feet.  
  
"Go and fucking stand in the corner, Ron!" yelled George. "You're a bloody liability!"  
  
"His fault," snapped Ron, sticking his middle finger up at Harry. "Rent boy!"  
  
"Jealous bastard!"  
  
Hermione leant over him. "Calm down, Harry ... please."  
  
"What do you mean calm down? He's just rendered me impotent!" snapped Harry.  
  
"Please ... you're not helping matters either," said Hermione. "We need to work this out. We've got to get out of this place ... if it's the last thing we ever do. If we don't get out of here you aren't going to get the chance to have sex anyway."  
  
Fred and George had steered Ron into the bedroom, and were talking to him, much as a trainer would talk to a boxer between rounds.  
  
"You can't let this bother you," said George. "We have to throw in our lot together. Just work it out. You can knock seven bells out of Harry when we get home ... just see if we care. But for now ... just cool off. You're putting us all in danger."  
  
"It's his fault," said Ron, sulkily. His nose was bleeding from where Harry had punched it. George staunched the flow with the sleeve of his robes.  
  
"It isn't Harry's fault," said George. "Get over it Ron. I don't like it much either, but I'm not about to start beating people up over it."  
  
"He needs a good walloping," said Ron.  
  
"No, he doesn't. Just snap out of it."  
  
Hermione had helped Harry to his feet. "Just say you're sorry to him," she said.  
  
Harry fumed. "Don't want to."  
  
"Harry ... nobody is going to want to have anything to do with you if you carry on behaving like a twelve year old kid," said Hermione. "Now are you going to shake hands?"  
  
"Maybe," said Harry. He shook her off, and approached the bed. Ron looked up.  
  
"See what you did?" he asked.  
  
"Ron," began Harry. "Look ... let's ..." he got no further, for Ron had lashed out again, and punched him square on the nose. Harry yelled in pain, and lunged at Ron, knocking him backwards over the bed and onto the floor. They disappeared. Hermione looked to Fred and George. The covers fell off the bed on top of them both, muffling the sounds of the fight.  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth pulled her rented Hyundai over to the side of the road, and got out. The afternoon was still blisteringly hot, and not having much money to spend on luxuries, she had foolishly chosen a model with no air conditioning. She leant against the roof of the car, and unfolded her map. Ishmael had warned her off making this journey ... the country roads weren't safe for a woman on her own, he had said. Better to wait until I can accompany you. Gwyneth, however, had chosen to ignore his counsel ... besides, there might not be time to waste. Lives might be in imminent danger.  
  
Now she found herself on a deserted, potholed two lane highway, about eighty kilometres from Baku ... and still another three hundred to go before she even had to cross the section of Armenia that stood between her and the province of Naxcivan. The map proclaimed her to be somewhere in the vicinity of a sizeable town called Ali Bayramli. The physical evidence of any form of human settlement continued to elude her, however.  
  
She opened one of the bottles of Coke she had bought with her, and drank gratefully. Many years of having to work closely amongst Muggles, especially with those who had accidentally seen a dragon, had given her an almost innate sense of their cultural mores and tastes, and to the casual observer, she could almost have passed as one. It was her dress sense that gave her away however. She was wearing a very long royal blue cloak over her robes ... which made driving rather difficult, and was something she was regretting.  
  
The two teenage motorcyclists who had tried to race her on that stretch of road outside Randzhbar had thought she looked like a Muggle. They had been rather disappointed when she had transfigured their scramble bikes into small donkeys.  
  
Sighing, she got back into the car. She had bought a couple of cheap cassettes from the airport duty free in London, and she stuck these on now, and drove to the music, occasionally popping an Every Flavour Bean into her mouth.  
  
She checked her watch. It was getting on for half past five. She judiciously sped up a little ... it wouldn't do to have to spend the night in the middle of nowhere.  
  
**************  
  
Hermione hauled Harry off Ron, who was now sporting a cut lip and a black eye. Ron tried to lash out again, but Fred held him back.  
  
"Get off me!" Harry yelled, trying to wriggle out of her grasp.  
  
Hermione could stand it no longer ... before she knew fully what she was doing, she had smacked him hard around the face. Harry stopped immediately.  
  
"Ow," he said, blushing very red indeed. "What did you do that for?"  
  
"Because you won't stop pissing about," said Hermione. "Please, Harry ... this is really important, and you and Ron seem to want to prove something, you're going to get us all killed or something."  
  
"Get Ron to apologise to me then," said Harry. "I'm just defending my honour ..."  
  
"Oh, shut up about your bloody honour!" snapped Hermione. "Scrap this whole stupid masculinity thing ... you have nothing to prove to anybody! Ron's just upset, and if you can't understand why that is ... then I don't want to be your friend, Harry."  
  
"Then get him to say sorry," said Harry. "That's all I want."  
  
"Harry ... it so blatantly isn't," said Hermione. "I don't know what the hell you think you want, but you're going the wrong way about getting it. Now ... the rest of us want to get out of this hell hole ... you and Ron are holding us up!"  
  
"Like this is all my fault?" started Harry.  
  
Hermione nodded. "Of course it's all your bloody fault ... how could it not be, with you being you ... having been through what you've been through."  
  
Harry couldn't have looked more shocked if his parents had just walked through the door. "How could you say that?"  
  
"Harry ... I'm sorry, but it's true," said Hermione. "Now we've got to get out of here before something horrible happens, but we need you to help us. Please."  
  
"Get Ron to say sorry!"  
  
"You get Ron to say sorry ... or go and say sorry to him or something. Stop mucking about and do something."  
  
Harry sneered, but he stood up anyway, and slouched over to where Ron was sitting. Ron looked up.  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
Harry reluctantly stuck out his hand, then turned to look at Hermione, who nodded at him supportively.  
  
"Sorry," he muttered.  
  
Ron took his hand, and shook it. "My fault," he said. "I'm sorry I said that stuff about you and Draco."  
  
"I still don't actually like him ... much," said Harry. "We've not made friends since you ... since you left. We just, talked once or twice, that's all it is."  
  
"That's it?" asked Ron.  
  
Harry smiled, slightly. Ron did the same. He looked up into Harry's eyes, and could see that they were brim full of tears.  
  
"What's the matter?"  
  
"I'm ... the newspaper said you were dead ... I thought you were dead," said Harry. "I was ... I believed them."  
  
Ron bit his lip to stop himself from crying ... he was dimly aware of Hermione, Fred and George looking on. Next thing he knew, Harry was hugging him, and crying onto his shoulder.  
  
Harry pulled abruptly away from his friend. "I'm sorry," he said again. Ron was smiling.  
  
"It's okay," he said. "Look ... more wounds to show off when we get home!"  
  
"More wounds, indeed," said a harsh, drawling voice. All five of them looked up.  
  
Standing in the doorway was Lucius Malfoy ... flanked either side by two masked and robed Death Eaters, who, if they had not been wearing masks, would surely have been grimacing.  
  
"That was a touching display of affection, Harry. One might almost think you were looking for a relationship ... certainly it was marvellously acted. I do hope you haven't been hurting each other, boys," said Malfoy, stepping into the room. Harry noticed with some alarm that he was carrying what looked like a gold topped cane. "That is Vladimir Koschenko's job. We will be most disappointed to learn that you have designs upon his position in this castle."  
  
Harry and Ron both scowled evilly at Malfoy, across whose face a slight grin was playing. "I see the legendary Weasley brothers have done it again," he said. "You have had us running round in circles for the last fifteen minutes wondering where on earth you three had got to. I must say ... I think you made it rather too obvious. If you don't mind me saying so, Ronald, if we had wanted to find you, we would have known where to look."  
  
"Stuff you, Malfoy!" glowered Ron.  
  
Malfoy looked slightly offended. "I really do not think that is the politest way of addressing your host. Poor Leonid is most offended as well ... he wished only to ensure your comfort, and you repay him by knocking him out with a very valuable tribal shield."  
  
"He had it coming to him," snapped George ... he and Fred moved protectively in front of Ron and Harry.  
  
"Devotion to your friends notwithstanding," said Malfoy. "The fact remains that you have disrupted my afternoon, and caused the abandonment of a most important summit meeting I was attending, with your humorous antics. I suggest you behave yourselves ... you have a most important day ahead of you."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" snarled Fred.  
  
"Oh, yeah, indeed," replied Malfoy, maintaining throughout his disconcerting aura of complete calm. "Tomorrow is Draco's birthday ... and we are planning some fun and games to mark the occasion. You are all cordially invited to attend. It should be interesting, to say the least. You must return forthwith to your room, and sleep."  
  
One of the Death Eaters stepped forwards, and beckoned for them to follow. Ron, Fred and George skulked out of the room ... their escape attempt at an end. Ron threw a backwards glance of sheer hatred at Malfoy, who didn't notice.  
  
Malfoy and the other Death Eater advanced on Hermione and Harry.  
  
"And as for you two troublemakers," said Malfoy. "I believe I have already had to warn you once about breaking the house rules. No sneaking around ... no spying ... and certainly no Weasleys. You must both be punished."  
  
He raised his cane above his head, and Harry automatically flung up his left arm to shield himself from the blow, which slammed into him with such force ... he heard a ghastly crack as the bone shattered, and he collapsed to the floor, screaming in pain.  
  
Hermione dropped to her knees by his side.  
  
"You had better come with us, girl," said Malfoy, as the Death Eater hauled Harry to his feet. "You must be made ready for your part in the celebrations. Such a big part you will have ... I feel sure you will enjoy it ... and I feel sure Draco will, too."  
  
Harry doubled up and dropped to the floor again as the Death Eater delivered a crippling punch to his kidneys. Hermione backed away from Malfoy.  
  
"Come now, dear," he said. "You have nothing to fear from me ... nothing at all."  
  
**************  
Bellerophon touched down in the fading evening light. Draco heard the sound of the doors grinding shut behind them, and as the last chink of daylight disappeared, and his eyes became used to the darkness, he could see the attendants clustering around Bellerophon with ladders for them and buckets of water for the dragon. Bellerophon growled contentedly.  
  
"You had better get off first," said Tatiana, as the ladder swung into view. A short man Draco recognised as Ivan was holding it in place. Slowly, for his legs were sore through sitting still so long, he got to his feet, and began to descend the ladder, Tatiana following.  
  
"I take it you enjoyed that," she said, dusting herself down.  
  
Draco nodded ... he was still slightly overwhelmed.  
  
"Thank you," he managed to stammer.  
  
"No problem," said Tatiana. "It ... well, like I said, you should think of it as an early birthday present."  
  
"He's ... you're lovely," said Draco, turning to Bellerophon, who was sighing with great relief as the attendants doused him with water. "But where am I going to keep him ... when I go back to England?"  
  
Tatiana raised her eyebrows. "This is your home now, Draco ... why would you want to go back to England?"  
  
"I ... I have, had, friends," said Draco.  
  
"Exactly," said Tatiana, removing her helmet and shaking out her hair. "There is nothing remaining there for you. You would be so much happier here ... can you not see that?"  
  
For the briefest of moments, Draco could, indeed, see what she meant. What was waiting for him back home? Nothing really ... no real friends anymore ... an uncaring Mother ... and if he was truly to become a Death Eater, a fact that he was beginning to become reluctantly resigned to, then there was truly nothing. Then he shook his head. He was not going to become a Death Eater ... he wasn't going to do his Father's bidding ... he wasn't going to allow it.  
  
"Draco? Are you all right ... you look glazed?" asked Tatiana.  
  
"I'll be okay," said Draco. "I just ... feel a bit weird. Too much has happened to me just lately ... it doesn't really seem real."  
  
Tatiana nodded. "A bit of a wrench ... right?"  
  
Draco smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "You're reading my thoughts again, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes," said Tatiana.  
  
"How come I can't?"  
  
Tatiana shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I expect ... I hope it will come to you, soon. Perhaps you're just, not used to the idea of having a sister yet."  
  
"Maybe," said Draco. "It's kind of been worrying me."  
  
"Well, at least you don't need to worry about planning your life anymore," said Tatiana. "Father has already done that for both of us."  
  
Draco was just about to say something along the lines of; 'As if,' when he felt somebody's eyes boring into his back, and as though obeying some sort of celestial cue, Draco turned round to see his Father standing at the top of the steps, leaning on his cane. He was smiling.  
  
"Father," said Tatiana. "You came down to see us."  
  
Lucius Malfoy came slowly down the steps, his cloak billowing slightly in the breath of the sleeping dragons. The smile seemed somehow fixed on his face.  
  
"Hello, Tatiana," he said. "Draco. I see you two have been getting to know one another."  
  
Draco scowled. "You never told me any of this ... how come?"  
  
"Draco ... I, could not," said his Father. "I could not have told you ... until you were ready to know. But now you do, and now, we are all together again."  
  
Draco shook his head. "I don't understand you," he said. "You just, completely confuse me," he noticed Tatiana was looking horrified. "Why would you think it right not to tell me? What about Mother ... what does she think?"  
  
"She is aware of the situation, and she agrees that, what we did was for the best, for the benefit of the family as a whole. You must see that what we did was for everyone's good," said his Father ... an imploring look which Draco could never remember having seen before spreading across his face.  
  
"Which family ... your family family, or some stupid, outdated notion of loyalty and honour? What matters to you more, Father ... me, and Mother, and Tatiana ... or what some dead bloke might think?"  
  
"Draco, please," his Father went on. "You must understand ... I have businesses to run, an image to uphold."  
  
Draco turned away. "I don't want to know," he said. "I want to go home."  
  
His Father stepped forwards, and put his hand on Draco's shoulder. "You always were of an independent bent," he said. "I always admired you for that."  
  
Draco huffed, and folded his arms. Tatiana made as if to step closer to him, but their Father waved her back. "I always admired my son ... you were never part of the crowd. You always had to be different."  
  
"So why have you always been so horrible to me?" asked Draco. "Why all ... why all that?"  
  
"I was only doing ... what my Father, your Grandfather did to me a hundred times or more. Draco ... you are no different to me, however much you may want to believe that. I was only ever, trying to raise you as I thought proper, as I thought to be the ... well, the correct fashion."  
  
"Then how come nobody else does it?" asked Draco, still refusing to look at his Father. Bellerophon was observing them out of one sleepy eye, and breathing softly.  
  
"I ... I do not know," said his Father. "Draco ... please. I love you as a son. You're my boy, my heir. How could I not want what was best for you? I know ... I know you think that you do not feel the same way about me ... but I hope in time you will understand. Now will you face me, that we might talk together?"  
  
Draco turned around. "You look like the warrior you are in that armour," said his Father. "Do you remember how you wanted to be a soldier?"  
  
Draco nodded. "Father ... I ..." he began.  
  
"Be still, Draco. I want you to come with me now. I want to show you some things. Tatiana, you may come too."  
  
Draco and Tatiana were led out of the dragons' chamber, and back along the passage which Draco had been brought along earlier that day. They climbed several long, winding flights of stairs, cut out of the solid rock itself, until at length, they reached another, vast chamber. There were huge, towering windows, stretching up to a ceiling so distant it was almost invisible. It looked like a cathedral, except dominating the room, instead of a cross, was an enormous statue of what appeared to be a snake. It was a cobra, reared up, and ready to spit, its collar flaring around its neck. Before the statue stood a raised dais.  
  
"This is the Animation Chamber, Draco," said his Father, sitting down on the steps leading up to the dais. "It is the centre of my operation ... everything hinges on this room ... this place of beauty that I have created, every statue a work of genuine art. Come and sit with me."  
  
Casting suspicious glances at one another, Draco and Tatiana stepped forwards, and sat down either side of him.  
  
"Tomorrow morning, Draco. At the precise moment dawn breaks over this castle ... we shall begin the ceremony."  
  
"What ceremony, Father?"  
  
"The ceremony of your initiation. Last night you were privileged indeed to be presented to my Lord and Master, Voldemort ... and tomorrow you shall join him. Then we shall open the tomb behind us."  
  
Draco turned to look, but saw nothing, save for the statue of the serpent. "Father ... there's nothing there."  
  
His Father was shaking his head. "Look closer, Draco ... what do you see?"  
  
Draco stared at it ... but there seemed to be nothing awry ... it was just a statue of a snake ... a fearsome one, but a statue, no less. "Father ... there isn't anything."  
  
His Father shook his head again. Then he clapped his hands. The floor beneath their feet began to rumble, as though some giant creature was stirring far beneath them. Then Draco heard the cranking, grinding sound of machinery ... and he looked on in awe as the statue sunk into the ground, revealing another room, and one even more beautiful, behind it.  
  
"The ancient tomb of our family," said his Father, getting to his feet, and motioning for the children to do the same. "Many years ago, Draco, our forefathers came from this region of the world ... they were barons and knights under the Russian regime ... they were also powerful sorcerers and great wizards. They built this castle, and it has remained in the family ever since. Some day, I dare say, you will inherit it."  
  
Draco stepped forward into the tomb. The walls were covered with exquisite renaissance frescoes, that somebody had evidently paid a fortune to have done. The floor was of polished marble.  
  
"Once," his Father went on. "It was foretold in this very castle that some day, a Dark Wizard greater than all who had gone before ... greater, though this is blasphemous, than Salazar Slytherin himself, would rise. They foretold he would rise, and would then be defeated, only to rise again and claim the life of the boy who had dared to challenge him. They foretold that the legions of Malfoys buried within this room would rise again, to come to the aid of their master. It is I who am to have this honour ... the honour of raising our family from the dead."  
  
"All of them?" asked Draco, who was standing, a little cautiously, on a large slab set into the floor, upon which was inscribed the following.  
  
'Seek you not the bones of the family that lie around you. Seek instead the spirit, for the spirit is strong.'  
  
Draco suddenly understood. "You mean the Ancestral Rite ... right?"  
  
His Father shook his head. "I refer to the Lazarus Potion."  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. "There's no such thing."  
  
His Father was shaking his head. "Alas are the young ignorant in the ways of their elders," he said. "There is such a thing ... and I should know, for I have spent the last six years perfecting the recipe in the laboratories, here, within this very castle, we discovered the secret of raising the dead."  
  
"But it can't be done!" protested Draco. "It's a near impossibility ... Snape said so."  
  
His Father smiled. "Ah, yes, Severus Snape," he said. "Well, Snape was partly responsible for the work we have done here. He always was a slimy little swot at school. He had been working on such a thing for some time ... he had only sketched preliminary notes, of course, but he surrendered those to Voldemort ... who in turn gave them to me. It was I who realised that Snape had stumbled across a truly awesome concept, and it was I who completed the work. The potion is now complete, and tomorrow, it will be tested."  
  
"Tested?"  
  
"If we have got it right ... the Malfoy clan will rise once more. Think of it, Draco ... think of them."  
  
Draco tried to imagine all the dreary looking people in the Portrait Gallery back home coming back to life. The concept depressed him.  
  
His Father was speaking again. "But then comes the ultimate test. There is one more piece of the puzzle to fit. Then ... we will perform the sacrifices."  
  
"Sacrifices?"  
  
"Beyond that door," his Father pointed to the far end of the tomb, where there was another set of doors, these ones covered in pure, shimmering gold. "Lies the last resting place of Salazar Slytherin. Engraved upon that door, centuries old, mined from deep within the Earth, are the runes. The runes state that to open the chamber, the blood of Slytherin's heir must be placed in the mouth of that dragon gargoyle."  
  
"Do you have his heir?" asked Draco, pretending to sound interested whilst secretly wishing he could run away from this place. The presence of all his ancestors, buried under the floor of this vast tomb, made him faintly uneasy. It was as though a thousand years of history was sitting on his shoulders, or under his feet, in this case. He noticed that Tatiana had paled considerably.  
  
His Father nodded. "You are his heir, Draco ... Voldemort is his heir ... Tatiana is his heiress ... even I, am his heir."  
  
"How ... fortunate," said Draco, taking a hasty step backwards. A smile spread across his Father's face.  
  
"Do not be fazed, Draco," he said. "I would not sacrifice my son ... not even for the glory and the honour that would bring me."  
  
Draco looked away, he couldn't bear to think about it.  
  
"We will be using the blood of your half brother ... Omar Malfoy. Even now he is being readied in the dungeons. Tomorrow he will die upon the altar ... and you will perform the deed."  
  
Draco backed away. "You sick freak!" he snarled, under his breath. "You've done it again! You expect me to buy this crap? All these siblings are coming crawling out of the woodwork ... it looks like the bloody Weasleys ..."  
  
Tatiana stepped forward, and put her hand on his arm to calm him. Draco shook it off. "How many whores have you been using, Father? Why would you need to do that? Why would anybody?"  
  
"Draco, please understand me," his Father began. "After you, you and Tatiana, your Mother, she did not want any more children. For my purposes ..."  
  
Draco snarled. "For your purposes? What kind of bull is that? That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard. I want nothing more to do with this. I do not want to be your son!"  
  
"Draco ... think of the honour it would bring you ... to be the one who resurrected Salazar Slytherin from the grave. Think of the honour for our family."  
  
Draco was shaking his head. "You disgust me," he said in a low voice. "You make me physically sick. You would kill a child to further your aims?"  
  
"I know you shall see clearer in the morning," said his Father.  
  
"Oh no I won't. I want no part in this ... this bloodbath. You unspeakable fiend ... I want out of here. I'm not joining your crappy cult, and I am not killing anything!"  
  
His Father stepped forward. "How dare you," he growled. "How dare you cast a slur upon this most noble of deeds? Do you realise I could strike you down where you stand?"  
  
"Come on then," snapped Draco ... if he had had sleeves to roll up, he would have been rolling them up. "Give me your best shot. Remember ... I went to boxing classes when I was a kid."  
  
"You couldn't take on a six year old," snarled his Father. "I, however, am schooled in over ten ancient martial arts. If you think you are man enough ... hit me ... lay out your Father boy ... and you will see how you cannot escape your destiny."  
  
"Don't do it, Draco," cried Tatiana, lunging forward and trying to grab her brother around the knees ... Draco, however, had stepped forward, and she missed, going crashing to the marble floor of the tomb.  
  
"Go on then," said Draco. "I win ... I walk out of here."  
  
"You have a deal ... and if I win?"  
  
Draco was now standing right up close to his Father. He barely came up to the man's shoulders. He could smell his breath, warm on his face. "If you win. We shall see," said Draco, his calm voice masking the fact that he was very nearly struck dumb with terror.  
  
"Very well," said his Father.  
  
Before Draco could move, his Father had grabbed him round the neck, and his head was trapped between his arm and torso. Then he began to twist. Draco's neck felt like it was about to come clean off. He felt a rush of blood in his head, could hear Tatiana screaming for their Father to stop, and then he fell to the floor ... choking.  
  
"Have we had enough yet, Draco? Are we crying yet? Come on ... I would like to see you cry, it would confirm what I have long feared for you."  
  
Draco whimpered. Next thing he knew, his Father had slammed the toe of his boot hard into his ribs. Draco screamed.  
  
"Father, stop it!" Tatiana was yelling.  
  
Draco could feel bile rising in the pit of his stomach ... he gave a short lurch, and vomited over his Father's boots.  
  
"You vile, putrid, little boy!"  
  
"Father ... I," he winced as his Father trapped his head between his feet. The smell of vomit was overpowering.  
  
"Do you want me to make you lick it up, Draco?"  
  
Draco yelped, and tried to wriggle free, but he could not speak, and then his Father had kicked him again, around the back of the head, and he blacked out.  
  
Tatiana dropped to her knees. "Father?" she asked.  
  
Lucius Malfoy turned to face her. "You were not here," he said, kicking Draco's limp form once more for good measure. "Believe me, Tatiana ... I do it only out of love for my boy. See how he must be educated. See how doubt grows in his mind."  
  
"It was all true," she said to him. "He ... Father, I know what you did to him. I don't want the kind of man that would do that as a Father."  
  
"Tatiana?"  
  
But Tatiana had turned, tears in her eyes, and fled the room, running as fast as she could away from him.  
  
"Tatiana ... wait!"  
  
A/N  
  
If this does read in parts like an advert for the Azerbaijani Tourist Board, I had better disclaim here and now by saying they are not paying me anything. I also know nothing about the geography of Naxcivan beyond what my copy of Encarta can tell me. Zyrnel is a real place, but I have no idea what it's like, so is Ali Bayramli, and the Zangezurskiy Mountains also exist. So please don't flame me for being ignorant about obscure countries thousands of miles away! Somebody also pointed out the irony of having a dragon called a Caucasian Black. Nothing racial is intended by this (completely fabricated) name. Tatiana isn't mean to be a Mary Sue, so no flames on that score please? If I was trying to insert myself into my own story, I would not make myself Draco's sister. The significance of that character will come out later on.  
  
There are reviewers still to thank. Simon will get a bigger part in the next bit, rave and Cassandra Claire, who seem happy to share their bandwagons with me, which is fortunate, as wheels keep falling off mine ... Cass gets a part next time round, so watch out for that (it's a nice part though, with Draco, although by implication it makes her an evil witch *grins* and you will get a bit drunk too ... hope that's okay).  
  
Keith, old chap, you can have no idea how much I had been hoping people wouldn't spot the Sirius/Death Eater mistake ... damnit! I guess it just means I haven't read the books thoroughly enough *hey ... wait, what a cool excuse to go read them* Cassie Lee (give up, you will never write a longer review than her *actually keep on writing long reviews, I do like reading them*), Sanna (would you believe me if I said I HAD been planning to confuse you all even more and make Malfoy switch sides again), Inspiring Author (this is true about the swastikas, you quite often see them in places like India), Karina and Viola must surely have noticed how I am slowly improving the comma situation. Thanks and hugs for your super beta-reading talents which are much appreciated. Lizzy (thanks), Sinead, Burrow Gurl, George Weasley's REAL Girlfriend (I sense conflict developing ... better change your name, I don't want all out wars in my review column. Anyway, still want more? Jesus, you're insatiable!), Portia (ha, thought you had me sussed did you? *laughs evilly*), dani (see, I reviewed), Amanita, Carey Potter, Eskalia and Icky Icky (whose name I must cut down to a reasonable length, as it adds at least 1K to the story, but does have a nice line in laugh until your head drops off type fic, even adapting the *How do we know she's a witch* sequence from Holy Grail). Thanks to you all. If I forgot anybody, or anybody reviewed after I wrote this, thanks to you too! I'm off now to do my Christmas shopping! I forgot the pin number to my ATM card the other day and so my stretched student budget is now limited even further, so it looks like my family will be getting packets of rubber gloves and squeaky dog toys from 'Everything's A Pound!' on the High Street.  



	11. The Rites Of Passage

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
Not mine ... hers.  
  
PART ELEVEN. THE RITES OF PASSAGE.  
  
Narcissa Malfoy fastened Draco's cloak around his neck, and Draco stepped back to survey himself in the mirror. It was rather fine. His Mother ran a final comb through his hair.  
  
Ever since he had woken up, back in his room, with no recollection of having been carried there or anything, he had been feeling increasingly as though, somehow, he was in two minds. One mind wanted to go to his party, to have fun, to please his Father. The other mind wanted to hang around in the bedroom and hope that something horrible would happen to the old goat. But after what had happened just a few hours earlier ... how could he participate knowing what he did? Adultery ... bigamy? All these things had come out now ... he knew about them. The very thought sickened him.  
  
"You look magnificent, Draco," Draco came back to his senses with a jolt.  
  
He looked at himself in the mirror. His Mother had done a good job on his black eye with her make up, and from a distance, you honestly couldn't tell. She had also had the decency not to ask him where he got it, though he suspected she knew.  
  
"I'd rather be dead," he groaned.  
  
"Now, I know you're just saying that," said Narcissa Malfoy, dusting off his robes. "Now come along ... the guests are arriving, and there is to be a banquet, and dancing! You like dancing."  
  
"I don't want a banquet," snapped Draco. "And I am not in the mood for dancing," he added, sounding as imperious as he knew how ... which was very.  
  
"Come now, Draco. The reception is very important to your Father. You are to be presented to some of the foremost Death Eaters in the world. Some of them have flown all the way from America."  
  
"Oh God," moaned Draco. "Yanks."  
  
"Draco," his Mother scolded. "That is no way to speak of our honoured guests. Now ... did you clean your teeth?"  
  
"Mother!"  
  
"Draco, this is important."  
  
"Yes, Mother."  
  
"Did you wash your face?"  
  
"Mother, I'm not a little kid anymore," he caught the look on her face. "Yes ... I did ... twice."  
  
"Did you put on clean underwear?"  
  
"Mother! Since when have the state of my pants been any concern of yours?"  
  
"Draco ... I do not want to have to tell your Father how stubborn you seem to be today. Perhaps you are running a fever."  
  
"I feel fine," said Draco, very firmly. "I do not need a doctor."  
  
"Well, then come along," said his Mother. "We cannot keep our guests waiting."  
  
**************  
  
The ballroom was lit by flickering candlelight. The orchestra had struck up a waltz, but nobody was dancing yet. Everybody was standing round the outside of the room, talking formally and stiffly to one another. Outside the French windows the sky glowed a brilliant, evocative red in the fading light.  
  
Lucius Malfoy's crack team of waiters was circulating about the crowd, bearing expansive dishes with canapés, little cocktail sausages, sandwiches and glasses of pink champagne. Draco surveyed the scene with a certain measure of disgust. How many people were there? It must have been close on to two hundred. But how many did he know? Probably one or two, if he was lucky. His birthday parties always got like this. His parents always invited who they wanted to invite, and ignored his wishes completely. He looked vaguely around the room for Tatiana, but she didn't seem to be there. There were balloons floating around near the frescoed ceiling ... a concession to frivolity that seemed most out of character for his Father.  
  
Draco tried not to look too sulky as his Mother led him into the room. Despite himself, he was kind of enjoying the attention. Maybe Old Draco wasn't quite dead yet, he thought, as he was presented to two Russian dignitaries he had never heard of, and would probably never meet again.  
  
"Draco," snapped his Mother, jerking him back to his senses. "I do wish you would behave ... speak up, and look up. Remember they have come to see you. Your Father doesn't want you mumbling."  
  
"Mr. and Mrs. Jack and Maureen Silvermann," the servant went on. "From Connecticut."  
  
Draco shook hands, and was kissed on the cheek by Maureen, who smelled very strongly of lavender oil. Her skin was like cracked parchment, evidently she had spent most of her life sunbathing in hot places ... her tan seemed to be baked on.  
  
"Say, you don't remember me, do you, kid?" Silvermann boomed ... he had a very strong Texan accent, and Draco was frankly surprised he wasn't wearing a Stetson and carrying a six shooter ... his abiding impression of the American nation having been gleaned from a chance viewing of a John Wayne movie at the age of seven.  
  
"No, sir," he admitted, itching to ask the man if he'd ever held up a stagecoach.  
  
"Jesus, Maureen, will you listen to the boy's accent? Couldn't you just eat it?"  
  
Draco huffed.  
  
"He's so charming!" agreed Maureen, ruffling his hair in a gesture she intended to be friendly. Draco snorted, and hurriedly smoothed his hair back into place. "How do you raise him so well?"  
  
Narcissa simpered. "A little love and affection goes a long way with children."  
  
Draco scowled.  
  
"I came round to your house in England once," Jack went on, he pronounced it 'Ing-her-land,' with emphasis on the 'her.' "You must have been about six or seven, and I remember you dropped your ice cream cone. You were mighty upset about that!"  
  
This only made Draco scowl even more. Narcissa, sensing discord, swiftly moved him on to the next couple before he damaged Anglo-American relations permanently.  
  
"Mr. and Mrs. Malvolio and Patricia Donahue, of Dublin, Eire."  
  
"Honoured, Master Draco, honoured to be here," the Donahues shook him very firmly by the hand. Once again, Draco's impression of the Irish did not extend much beyond potatoes, leprechauns and Guinness. Despite the fact he was physically repulsed ... not only by the nature of his upcoming task, but also by Patricia Donahue's face, he thanked them, before being moved on.  
  
"Lord and Lady Melchett, of Castle Donnington, Cambridgeshire."  
  
Narcissa curtseyed at this point, but Draco was alarmed to see the Melchetts bowing to him.  
  
"It is truly an honour," said Lord Melchett, through his moustache. He was holding a glass of some clear liquid in one hand, with a slice of lemon floating in it. Whatever it was ... Draco suspected vodka ... he had clearly had one too many already. His face looked like a partially unripe beetroot.  
  
"Mr. and Mrs. Simon and Delia Branford, of Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire."  
  
"A great honour, Master Draco," Draco found himself being shaken around and kissed again. He managed a wan smile, and felt slightly guilty that he had chosen the other outfit. Simon, however, did not appear to have noticed.  
  
"Good to meet you," he said. "Can I have some of those sausages now?" he asked his Mother.  
  
"He wants his money's worth," cooed Mrs. Branford, making as though to ruffle his hair. Draco hastily withdrew.  
  
"Good on you, Draco," said Simon, cuffing him on the shoulder.  
  
"I'm a huge fan of your dresses," simpered Narcissa, batting her eyelashes at Simon. "I was so pleased to see your name on the guest list."  
  
Delia was scowling at her ... the look on her face could have melted ice at fifty paces.  
  
"I'll catch up with you later," said Narcissa. "I must introduce Draco to some people."  
  
His Mother steered him in the direction of the buffet, where there was a queue that parted to allow them access.  
  
"Let the boy through," a gruff voice said.  
  
One of the waiters offered him a plate with little cheesy biscuits on it. Draco, who wanted sausages, scowled, and took a biscuit anyway.  
  
"Would you care for champagne, Master Draco?" somebody else asked. Draco shook his head.  
  
"Thanks," he said. "It makes me light headed."  
  
"That's the whole bloody point!" someone else roared, and everybody laughed. Draco felt even more of an arse. He was starting to wish he could have been allowed to invite the people he had wanted to. It was his birthday, after all ... I wonder where all my presents are ... he thought.  
  
The speaker was a very large, fat man in a red military jacket, plastered with campaign medals that looked to have stepped straight out of the Eighteenth Century. Next to him was standing a shorter man, also quite squat, wearing a simple brown cloak, like a monk. He looked quite out of place amongst all the severity and finery. He had a pointed, almost rat like face, and his nose seemed to be quivering slightly. One of his hands, and this Draco could not take his eyes off, appeared to be made out of solid silver.  
  
The man, sensing Draco was looking at him, stuck out his hand. "Broomstick crash," he explained. "The name's Pettigrew. Peter Pettigrew. Personal equerry to Lord Voldemort himself."  
  
Narcissa smiled. "Is his Lordship not joining us for the reception?" she asked.  
  
Pettigrew shook his head. "He likes to remain anonymous," he said. "Who can tell who might be about to infiltrate this particular party. There are many who would seek to assassinate him, and I must be constantly on the alert."  
  
"That precludes a nice glass of champers, what?" boomed the man in the military jacket. His upper crust accent seemed so absurdly over the top that Draco felt sure it was a parody.  
  
"I'm off duty," said Pettigrew, coldly.  
  
"I think you'll find we are all Dark Wizards here," said Narcissa. She clouted Draco round the back of the head. "Eat with your mouth closed, for heaven's sake, Draco!"  
  
"My head hurts," moaned Draco, as she led him away from the little grouping. "I want to go to bed."  
  
"Be quiet and eat your biscuits. Really ... I do not understand what has got into you. You used to be such a compliant boy."  
  
"It must be hormones," said Draco, putting on his most annoyed sounding voice, in the hope it would make her go away. It didn't. He found himself being tugged over to another group standing near the orchestra, which appeared to be composed entirely of teenage witches, all of who were clutching fluted wine glasses.  
  
"Hello," said Draco, weakly. The girls giggled.  
  
"Hello, Draco," they chorused.  
  
His Mother made the introductions, pointing to each of them in turn. "We have ... let me see, Cassandra ... I remember you, I used to know your Father quite well. Susan, and Elizabeth. Well ... I should leave you to get to know one another."  
  
"Thank you," squeaked Draco.  
  
Cassandra had taken his arm. "My Father insisted we come to watch," she said. "You do know our parents have been seeking a union between our families for some time."  
  
"Bosoms," squeaked Draco. "I mean ... have they really?"  
  
"Yes, Draco," said Cassandra. "And sixteen today ... what a stroke of luck."  
  
The others giggled and bounced up and down in excitement. "I love what you've done to your hair, Draco," said Susan.  
  
Here Draco was on firmer ground. "Yes," he said. "I have a ... um, barber."  
  
"I gathered," said Susan. "He does a good job ... you look very dashing today."  
  
"Thank you. You look nice, too," he said. His etiquette teacher had told him to always complement a woman on her appearance ... and never to talk about yourself unless they did. He noticed that the conductor of the orchestra appeared to be regarding them with a look of deep suspicion.  
  
"Do you go to Hogwarts then, Draco?" asked Cassandra, running a hand through her hair.  
  
Draco nodded. "Yes ... it's very pretty ... nice," he said. Cassandra appeared to be blushing to the roots of her hair. "Where ... um ... where do you, as it were?"  
  
Cassandra turned away meekly. "Salem Institute of Witchcraft," she said, almost in a whisper.  
  
"That must be nice," said Draco. "You don't have much of an accent."  
  
She shook her head. "I know."  
  
"Tell me, Draco," interrupted Susan. "Do you have a girlfriend?"  
  
Draco nearly choked on his scrambled egg. "Well," he said. "I kind of, do ... not that you aren't ... very nice."   
  
"I'm unattached myself," said Susan, elbowing Cassandra slightly in her haste. "I did once have a boyfriend, but my Father disapproved."  
  
Draco nodded. "Mine ... um, can be like that too. What about you?"  
  
"I'm single!" Cassandra blurted, before any of the others could stop her.  
  
"Did you fly out specially then?" asked Draco. "I mean ... you didn't have to ..."  
  
"My parents are kind of into this Dark Magic stuff," said Cassandra, blushing slightly. "They want to introduce me to European society. They think it's more refined."  
  
Draco nodded. "Yes," he said. "You'll find we all have our heads stuck up our bottoms twenty four seven around here. Gets bloody tiresome after a while. Will you ... um, be coming to the ceremony?"  
  
She shook her head. "Women aren't allowed in," she said. "But my Father will be there ... he's the one in the black cloak."  
  
Draco looked around the room. All of the men seemed to be wearing black cloaks. "That one ... over there," she hissed. "By the window. Talking to your Mum."  
  
Susan was starting to look very annoyed indeed.  
  
"What exactly is the ceremony all about?" asked Cassandra. "My Dad won't tell me. Not that I wasn't pestering him about it ..."  
  
"He's talking to me!" Susan snapped, grabbing him by the arm.  
  
Narcissa bore down on them at that moment, and made as if to whisk Draco away somewhere else. "There are some people whom I am dying for you to meet," she said. "Come along ... I'm afraid I shall have to tear your beau away from you, ladies," she went on.  
  
Draco allowed himself to be led away.  
  
"I'm going to introduce you to polite society if it kills me," glowered his Mother. "You waltz so well, too, and we spent a fortune on those bloody lessons ... God knows, a bloody fortune. And yet you still persist in this bizarre stubbornness."  
  
"Who could ever think why?" asked Draco, looking up to the ceiling resignedly. One of the servants had gone the whole hog and put up a revolving mirror ball, except it didn't seem to be working just then.  
  
"This," said his Mother, pulling his attention back to Earth with a loud thud, "is the Honourable Charles Montmorency."  
  
"Ever so pleased to meet you, Draco old chap," said Charles, shaking his hand ... he seemed to be speaking from somewhere at the back of his nose, and actually sounded very much like some kind of horse, if such a thing was possible.  
  
"Enchanted," said Draco, quite forgetting that this was the wrong thing to say to a man. Narcissa rolled her eyes, and silently bemoaned the amounts of money they had spent on etiquette lessons.  
  
Charles, however, did not notice, or if he did, kept quiet about it, and brayed like a donkey ... fluttering his eyelashes at Draco.. "So, Draco," he said, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels, and nearly spilling champagne all down the front of his immaculately pressed tuxedo. "Sixteen today, eh? Becoming a man at last, are we?"  
  
"Um ... yes, actually," said Draco.  
  
Charles winked at him conspiratorially. "Tell me, Draco. I used to go to Hogwarts. Has the old place changed very much?"  
  
"I ... wouldn't know," said Draco. "When ... um, when did you go."  
  
"Bloody ages ago," snorted Charles. "Does Snape still teach potions?"  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
"What about old Duxbury Mountbatten?" asked Charles. "Charms ... divine chap, buggered me senseless, of course."  
  
Draco shrugged. "He doesn't teach any more," he said, a little uneasy in the presence of this man. He looked around for any sign of his Mother, but she was flirting with Simon Branford, and hadn't noticed.  
  
**************  
  
Harry sat on the floor of his cell ... hugging his knees to his chest. Still nobody was coming to fix up his arm, and he was out of his mind with pain. He would have had a go himself, he was fairly sure that he could work the spell if he put his mind to it ... however his wand was still back at Hogwarts. The only magic he would be able to do here would be the kind he had done as a kid, without realising it ... like when he had ended up on the school roof.  
  
"So," he said out loud, as though challenging the walls. "I'm stressed and angry and scared now ... so why isn't anything happening?"  
  
Somewhere else in the dungeons, somebody screamed very loudly. Harry hoped it wasn't Hermione.  
  
"Silence!" a voice roared. "I will hit you again!"  
  
Harry did not hear a reply, though a brief second later he did hear another cry of pain, so he assumed the speaker had carried out his threat.  
  
Now he heard footsteps, getting louder, coming closer. Someone was rapping something against the iron bars of every cell they passed, and humming a low, mournful tune.  
  
Whoever it was arrived in front of Harry's cell. He was holding a Muggle battery powered torch, which he shone in Harry's eyes, so that he could not see him. Harry turned away, and shielded his face against the beam.  
  
"What have we here?" whoever it was asked.  
  
"This, Mr. Koschenko, is Harry Potter," said another voice. Harry had not seen two people, so was a little surprised. However, he did not look up. He realised he was shivering ... the cold, foul smelling water seeping up through the floor was soaking his trousers and underwear, but he was beyond caring.  
  
"Potter," said the one called Koschenko. "I had imagined more, Avery."  
  
"In what way, sir?"  
  
"Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort ... did he not?"  
  
Harry opened one eye furtively. He could see them standing just beyond the barred door. Avery, whose voice he recognised to be that of the man who had attacked him at Hogwarts, was glancing hurriedly around, almost as if he expected to be killed any second. "We do not talk of such things in such terms," he said.  
  
"Why not?" asked Koschenko.  
  
"Harry Potter caused the temporary ... ah, hiatus in Lord Voldemort's glittering career. However, tomorrow he is to be removed from the equation."  
  
Harry could see Koschenko's eyes shining in the half-light of the darkened dungeon. "Am I to be allowed to play with him?" he asked, enunciating every syllable delicately, making Harry shiver even more. He was fairly sure he did not want to be played with by anybody, let alone this hideously deformed man. Harry had never seen anyone quite as ugly. He wondered how Koschenko had gotten that way.  
  
"No," said Avery. "Malfoy has demanded that he be kept in reasonable condition until the hour of sacrifice is at hand. Nevertheless, Harry here has been displaying a certain penchant for breaking the rules that we have laid down for his safety, and therefore has wound up living his last hours in this hovel."  
  
Koschenko licked his lips. "I expected so much more," he replied. "I expected to see before me a fine, upstanding boy, one who would not hesitate to lay down his life for his cause. Instead I see a rather pathetic one, crouching on the floor."  
  
"Malfoy has ordered him fed," said Avery, turning away so that he didn't have to look at Harry any longer. "Bread, water ... whatever you can spare."  
  
"I can barely feed the prisoners I already have," said Koschenko. "However, I was hired because of my skill at keeping people alive. I will do my best," he turned to Harry, who looked up.  
  
"You're going to die quite soon," hissed Koschenko.  
  
**************  
  
The party had moved into the dining room, where great, long tables bedecked with cloths of fine white linen had been set out for them. There were place settings, several sets of knives and forks and different wine glasses for each course, something Cassandra had been very taken by indeed, getting through at least half a carafe before they had finished the starter. Draco found this, if anything, faintly worrying.  
  
The dining room itself was probably the biggest single room in the castle ... and looked out over the gorge and mountains, a stunning view which Draco thought he could probably never tire of.  
  
"Won't you take a little more wine, Draco?"  
  
Dinner had been served as the sun set beyond the distant, shadowy bulk of Devil's Spine ... a light asparagus starter, a side of roast beef with all the trimmings, and pudding still to come. If there was only one thing Draco could find to like about his birthday party ... the food would be it ... and maybe the company as well. After all ... they were having a good laugh. Weren't they? He shook his head. "I won't take any, thank you," he said. "I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow."  
  
Cassandra shrugged, and made to pour more wine from the carafe to her glass, which was already half full. "Your loss," she said. "All the more for me. You know we can't drink in the States until we're twenty one," she added, grinning inanely. Draco was beginning to get the feeling that she was, actually, very drunk indeed.  
  
"Evidently," said Elizabeth, with great sarcasm in her voice, holding her head in her hands.  
  
"So this is quite a novel experience!" Cassandra burbled, happily. Draco could do very little but smile at her ... that and try to think about Hermione instead. Why did I say I was 'kind of' unattached?  
  
He noticed Cassandra taking a very large swig from the glass. "Don't you think you've had enough?" asked Draco. The main course had only just been taken away. Dessert was still to come, and rumour had it that it was going to be tiramisu.  
  
Cassandra gave him a reproachful look. Her face was illuminated gently from below by the candles that decorated the table top. "I'm not as think as you drunk I am," she said, indignantly.  
  
"To make that joke ... oh, yes you are," said Draco, sliding her glass surreptitiously away from her.  
  
Somebody up at the other end of the table had evidently cracked a slightly better joke, for most of the adults present appeared to be in stitches of uncontrollable mirth. Draco sulked inwardly. It was his birthday, and he was relegated to the children's end of the table, whilst his parents entertained all these magical hotshots. Vile, nasty, calculating magical hotshots of course, but all the same, it was very annoying, especially because the waiters had passed them by when it came to drinks. Not that I wanted to drink anyway, thought Draco. The taste of alcohol always made him want to puke his guts out.  
  
"Something wrong, Draco?" asked Elizabeth.  
  
Draco looked up and shook his head. "I just feel a bit under the weather," he said. "I had a long day today," Tatiana still had not turned up, and he was still wondering vaguely just where she was.  
  
"I had jet lag for a day!" Cassandra exclaimed. "And we didn't even come by plane!"  
  
"You are pissed," said Susan. "Give me your glass."  
  
Cassandra shook her head. "Draco can have it ... if he wants," she said. "We came by Floo Powder," she pushed her glass slightly nearer Draco, who pretended to ignore it. "Have you ever done that, Draco?"  
  
"Many times," said Draco, who was still trying desperately to ignore the wine glass. "I think I prefer broomsticks though."  
  
"Oh yes ... I hear you're an excellent flier! Do you play Quidditch at all? Tell me about the changing rooms ..."  
  
Draco blushed. "I'm not very good," he said, remembering with a twinge of embarrassment that his Father had had to buy his position on the Slytherin house team, of which he was now Captain ... which made him feel doubly guilty. "There are other people at school who can fly a whole lot better than me."  
  
Cassandra seemed to clock the reference. "Of course," she said. "Harry Potter goes to your school, doesn't he?"  
  
Draco sighed. "Yes," he said. Why does everyone want to talk about Harry? I'm important ... I'm Draco, and it's my birthday too.  
  
"Do you know him? I bet you know him really well," said Cassandra, answering her own question. Draco was slightly perturbed by the fact that she appeared to have abandoned all pretence of fancying him, much to his annoyance, as he was beginning to enjoy himself.  
  
"I know him ... vaguely," said Draco. "We're not very good friend ..."  
  
Cassandra, however, was blatantly not listening to him, and continued to speak. "I wrote him a letter as soon as I heard he was at school ... and I've seen his picture ... actually, I've got it on my wall ... Teen Witch Weekly did a pull out special ... and all the books too."  
  
"There are books?" asked Draco, secretly thinking; why has nobody ever written a book about me?  
  
She was nodding. "Of course," she said. "Four of them ... with pictures! A friend of mine wrote to ask him if he'd like to do a calendar ... but he never replied. He never replies to any of our fan mail. I can't work out why."  
  
Draco's mind, however, was still mulling over her previous remark. "A calendar?" he asked, his eyes boggling slightly at the thought.  
  
"You know the kind of thing, muscle bound young wizards in swimming trunks," said Cassandra, grinning, and batting her eyelashes in a gesture Draco found very worrying indeed. "Very appealing. Does Harry go for shorts or Speedos?"  
  
"I don't think Harry counts as a muscle bound hunk," said Draco, trying to imagine Harry posing on a beach, surrounding by a bevy of lithe, adoring lovelies. "Though I've never seen him in swimming trunks ... so I couldn't possibly comment."  
  
Susan and Elizabeth were giving them both very disapproving looks. They could have stared for England, especially Susan, whose eyes were almost popping out of her head.  
  
"You were saying earlier you wanted to schnoogle Draco, now you've come over all gooey about Harry Potter ... of all people," said Elizabeth, glaring angrily at her. "May I remind you you're meant to be a Dark Witch?"  
  
"So I can't fancy other men too? Is that what you're saying? And just look at who we have to work with here. You-Know-Who is not sexy," she was slurring her speech, Draco noticed, but said nothing. He blushed again.  
  
"Ah ... I'm not sure schnoogle is actually a word, although I'd be more than happy to try ..." No! Silly arse. Hermione ... keep thinking of Hermione! She looks a bit like Hermione! No! Quit that! Whose side are you on? Bloody conscience!  
  
"Are you okay, Draco?" asked Elizabeth, leaning over the table, an expression of sincere concern filling her eyes. "I can get her to shut up if you'd like."  
  
"I don't mind at all," said Draco, dimly aware that someone was stroking his leg. Think of something else, damn it! Dumbledore squatting naked on a glass coffee table! Yuck ... disgusting, however, not bad enough. Voldemort squatting naked on a glass coffee table! Still not bad enough. Him and Hermione squatting na ... no! Bad image! Bad image! Who else can squat on a glass table ... Richard Nixon? Margaret Thatcher? Now we're getting somewhere. Draco was able to relax a bit.  
  
"You aren't okay," Elizabeth was saying.  
  
Draco, silently willing whoever was stroking his leg, and getting closer to another area that moved things into whole new categories Draco wasn't entirely familiar with yet, to stop, grinned slightly. "I'll be fine," he said. "I just came over all funny."  
  
"He probably had too much wine," said Susan, putting on a concerned face. "Teenage boys go all to pieces after one drink," she added, giving Elizabeth a knowing glance. Cassandra was giggling again.  
  
"I've not touched a drop," said Draco. "I hate wine. I'm just ... tired. That's all," this was true ... darkness had now fallen outside ... the windows had been opened and the orchestra was serenading them as they ate. Outside, the whirring of crickets and cicadas could be heard, and a gibbous moon was just rising over the mountains. Draco found it hard to believe that this was the same day. Just this afternoon I was flying dragons, he thought.  
  
"Perhaps you and I could dance afterwards," Cassandra suggested. Draco wasn't really listening. His Father had just stood up, and looked as though he was about to bang his spoon on his wine glass.  
  
"Ladies and Gentlemen ... honoured guests, friends, compatriots and colleagues," he began. "May I have your attention please? Before we proceed to the dessert, I have a few words to say."  
  
Cassandra hurriedly tried to withdraw her hand, but Draco seized it, and clamped it back into place on his thigh. There was a broad grin on his face. All thoughts of Hermione had vanished from his mind.  
  
"I bid you a most warm welcome to my fortress home. I know most of you have come vast distances across the world to be with us on this special occasion. Tomorrow, my son and heir comes of age," his Father pointed extravagantly. Heads swivelled in Draco's direction. Draco, who was slumped in his chair giggling slightly, sat up straight and pretended to look very serious. His Father glared at him.  
  
"Tomorrow will be a great day for Draco. The preparations have been long and arduous, but it is my belief that he is now ready to assume the burden of responsibility ... to take it on his shoulders, and move finally from the estate of boyhood, which I think we all agree is a most admirable state," Cassandra was nodding, "to the estate of manhood, which is even more so," Cassandra nodded slightly harder. Charles Montmorency was looking at him with an expression of intense admiration on his equine features.  
  
"What is she doing to you?" asked Susan, staring at Draco, whose jaw had gone slack.  
  
"Nothing of any conseque ... ouch!" squeaked Draco. "No consequence," he added, his voice, which had been broken for some time, seemed to reassemble itself briefly.  
  
"Is there something wrong, Draco?" his Father asked. Draco became aware that everybody in the hall was watching them. "You appear distracted."  
  
"Nothing at all, Father," squeaked Draco. Cassandra waved at the other guests. "Everything is hunky dory."  
  
"Quite," his Father went on. "As you can see, Draco has always been a runaway little scamp. I regard it as one of his charming qualities."  
  
Draco blushed, but not for that reason. "Will you move away from that whole area?" he hissed. "I'm meant to be saving myself." Susan and Elizabeth both chose that moment to kick Cassandra and Draco under the table, making them both jump.  
  
"It is also a time of great sadness for me ... for I am losing my son, whom I have loved and cherished all his life ..."  
  
If the audience had thought it appropriate to go, 'Ah,' they would have done. Thankfully they didn't know what was happening to Draco under the table.  
  
"... and I feel a great sadness inside me, for Draco is now to be set on the path to living his life as a man of independent means ... with a little help from me, of course."  
  
The initiated Death Eaters around the table exchanged knowing glances. Their wives, who, for the most part remained blissfully of their husbands' more exotic activities, did not catch the reference, or took it to mean a plum position on the Malfoy International board of directors.  
  
"So on the day before his birthday, as my son cherishes his last few hours as a carefree child. I raise my goblet to him, and toast him. Will you please join me?"  
  
The other guests had stood up.  
  
"Charge your glasses," hissed Elizabeth, forcing a little wine into Draco's empty goblet. Draco scowled.  
  
"Should I be toasting myself?" asked Draco.  
  
"I'll toast you, if you like," said Cassandra. "My room, third floor, after the dances."  
  
"To Draco!"  
  
"To Draco," the company repeated. All drank.  
  
**************  
  
"Your breakfast, Mr. Black," the servant set down a small tray on Sirius' lap, and then withdrew from the room.  
  
Sirius lifted the lid off the tray. There was a grapefruit half ... a small box of bran, semi-skimmed milk, and three vicious looking pieces of toast. There was also a jug of coffee and a small cup.  
  
"What are they trying to do?" he asked himself. "Do they want me to fart to death or something?"  
  
Nevertheless, he was hungry, and the food was very welcome, even though he didn't like grapefruit, and normally refused to eat toast unless somebody cut the crusts off for him. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat up in bed to drink it.  
  
"All I need now are the morning papers, and I'm right set for my day," he said to himself.  
  
At length, having finished his breakfast, he showered, and changed into the robes that had been left for him. They were very long, hanging down to the feet, and appeared to be made of pure white muslin. Sirius scowled at them for a good few minutes, and then pulled them on.  
  
"Least if I have to die," he said, as he took up his comb. "I'll die looking like a complete arse, in the fine tradition of generations of Blacks."  
  
"I don't know," replied the mirror. "I think the colour is very good on you. You have toast crumbs in your hair, by the way."  
  
**************  
  
Harry looked up at the sound of footsteps echoing on the cold, stone floor of the dungeons. Someone in the distance was rattling keys, and whistling a tune. He heard an iron door being pushed open, and then saw the man's shadow on the wall, coming towards his cell.  
  
"I trust we slept badly, Potter," said Koschenko, stopping in front of the cell. "You would have been having a last meal right about now ... anything you desired would have been gifted you ... but as you have decided to break our rules, you get nothing. Now get up ... the ceremony is about to start."  
  
Harry got to his feet, still wincing from the beating he had taken at the hands of the Death Eaters. His smashed arm was hanging uselessly at his side, and to any casual observer, he would have appeared broken. He had not slept all night, and there were heavy bags under his eyes. His hair was dirty, matted and caked with blood, his legs bruised, and his face a mess. One of the lenses of his glasses was smashed. However, Harry was made of sterner stuff.  
  
"I will not die today," he told himself, over and over again. "I do not plan on dying for a very long time."  
  
Koschenko opened the cell door, reached in, and pulled him roughly out by the front of his robes.  
  
"You're an absolute mess, Potter! Can't you even keep yourself clean?"  
  
"Fuck you," snarled Harry.  
  
"I suggest we keep our lip under control, boy," hissed the gaoler. "Else you might find I decide to play with you a bit before the ceremony. We'd better clean you up a bit, hadn't we?"  
  
Harry glowered at him. Koschenko grabbed him by the back of his robes, and frogmarched him down the corridor to another room, Harry kicking and struggling as he went. Eventually, they reached another room, which Harry was thrust rudely inside. The door clanged shut behind him.  
  
"I'll be back with clean robes in five minutes. Get yourself looking halfway normal."  
  
Harry found himself in a tiny room, with a small drain set into the middle of the floor. Hanging on a peg on the back of the door was a small, thin strip of material that was clearly supposed to be a towel. It was filthy. On the wall was a tap, and underneath the tap was a cast iron bucket. Harry sighed, and began to peel off his robes.  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth sat down at the dining room table, and sighed deeply. She had been busy in the kitchen all morning, preparing, chopping, cooking, and all Sirius had done was lounge about, listening to the Quidditch on WWN. Now she relaxed, and surveyed her handiwork ... there were plates set out for five ... fine glasses, and silver cutlery, and a little plastic bowl with golden snitches decorating the rim, little bread rolls and a bottle of the best wine Sirius had been able to track down at such short notice, which had meant a five minute walk down to the Off Licence on the corner of Palmeira Drive and Melbourne Avenue, in the pouring rain. It was early October, and winter seemed to be coming early that year.  
  
She heard the sound of a car drawing up outside.  
  
"Do you think that's them?" asked Sirius, getting to his feet and folding his Daily Prophet neatly in two.  
  
Gwyneth went over to the window, and parted the nets. Sure enough, the familiar red Ford Cortina was parked outside, next to Sirius' beloved Harley. The front doors opened, and two people stepped out, holding their jackets over their heads to keep the rain off. Gwyneth watched as Lily opened the back door to take Harry out.  
  
"I'll get the door," said Sirius, skipping happily out of the room.  
  
"I'll get the pasta," said Gwyneth. She went into the kitchen, and opened the oven ... a well-thumbed copy of Easy Italian Recipes For Busy Witches lay open on the counter top. The lasagne was done ... a little burnt around the top, maybe, but nothing a little magic couldn't cure. She took her wand out of the pocket of her 'I Got Laid In Blackpool' apron, that Sirius had bought her, and fixed it quickly, before anyone noticed.  
  
She heard the front door slam, and then a familiar South London accent ... "You wouldn't believe the bloody traffic on the A66 at Blackburn, mate," James was saying. "We thought we'd avoid the M6 round Manchester way and come over the top, via Burnley. You can't move for people up there today."  
  
"Blackburn are playing at home to Sunderland," said Sirius.  
  
"You what?"  
  
"Muggle football, soccer ... that'll be why there's all the people about ... off to the game," Sirius went on. "I think Gwyneth is in the kitchen."  
  
Gwyneth heard a muffled, "Oof!" as Harry attached himself to Sirius' legs.  
  
"Ducks!" she heard him shout. "Ello, Padfoot!"  
  
"Indeed," said Sirius.  
  
"Duck off!" Harry shouted.  
  
"He means something else," Gwyneth heard Lily say. "Somebody in a white van cut up James on the M6 at Lancaster, so he had a bit of a go at them ... and, well, you know how kids are with copying things they hear. I remember last time we had the Longbottoms over," her voice trailed off into the ether.  
  
"How are they now?" asked Sirius. Gwyneth set down the lasagne dish on the counter top, and went out into the hallway to join them. James smiled at her.  
  
"Not good," said Lily. "We went round yesterday. They're still busy sorting out their wards ... and they're going to need a Secret Keeper too. They've sent Neville to stay with his Grandmother in Lewes while they sort it out. Harry doesn't seem to have noticed he's gone."  
  
"It's an absolute bloody outrage," said Sirius. "Sorry, Harry ... you didn't hear that!"  
  
"Buddy!" shouted Harry, giggling and grabbing Sirius round the ankles again.  
  
"Indeed I am," said Sirius. "Do you like pasta, Harry?"  
  
Harry looked faintly shocked, and shook his head.  
  
"Yes you do," said James.  
  
"We took him to a lovely new place, just opened, over in Carlisle," said Lily. "Of course, he was having none of it ... threw his spaghetti on the floor."  
  
"Gapspetti!"  
  
"Quite," said Gwyneth. "Come on, Harry ... let's find you a bib," she took the little boy by the hand, and led him into the kitchen.  
  
"How are you holding up?" asked Sirius.  
  
"We're taking each day as it comes," said Lily, sighing. "God knows there's enough stuff on our plates at the minute without all this blooming rubbish."  
  
"How's Albus?"  
  
"He's getting more and more uppity each day that passes," said James. "I keep telling him ... when I'm good and ready ... when I get worried about Harry ... then we'll think about it."  
  
"I reckon it makes sense," said Sirius. "You'd be better protected there. Imagine how I feel, with Gwyneth trekking down to Wales every week? And us living amongst Muggles too. Plays havoc with my sex life ... oh ... is there any more news on the you-know-what front?"  
  
Gwyneth poked her head round the door, having just tied a bib round Harry's neck. It had a picture of Bagpuss on it. Lily was beaming. "Yes," she said. "They just came back from the doctors the other day ... it's positive ... we're having another."  
  
Gwyneth flung her arms around Lily. "Oh ... I'm so happy for you!" she said.  
  
"You old sex bomb you!" smiled Sirius, clapping James on the shoulder. "What are you going to call it?"  
  
"Sex bum!" shouted Harry, dissolving into a fit of giggles. Lily scooped him up. "At the minute, it's called Baby. If it's a boy, I rather like the sound of Jack ... or George ..."  
  
"I still like Ringo."  
  
"You would."  
  
"And if it's a girl ... I should like to call her Rosemary. It goes quite well with Potter."  
  
Gwyneth flustered a bit. "If you'd all like to come through to the dining room ... it's on the table."  
  
Gwyneth woke up with a start. She had not intended to fall asleep, at least not for long, but the half light of the early morning, pouring in through the car window told her she had spent longer napping than she had meant to. She was sweating all over. Every night since she had caught Sirius in her office, she had been dreaming about them. But she couldn't tell if the dreams were real or not. Had they actually happened? She had a feeling that they had. She definitely remembered the day they came over for lunch. It was beginning to scare her. Of course, she had had nightmares during the Troubles ... and for weeks, years afterwards she would wake up with James and Lily's death scrolling through her mind like a movie. But of late, things had been calming down. Now, however, the dreams were back with a vengeance. Perhaps it was just a symptom of these troubled times, she thought. Then she checked her watch.  
  
Swearing loudly, she sat up, and levered the driver's seat back into its upright position. So doing, she unscrewed the top off her flask of coffee, and drank deeply from the contents, which were now stone cold.  
  
The landscape around her was becoming increasingly mountainous, and she had a feeling she must surely now be nearing her goal. This looked like the kind of terrain you would expect to find dragons in. In fact, looking around now, she felt certain she was close by. Ahead of her, the road stretched away up the hillside, winding and twisting through bizarre rock formations, small, treacherous tunnels and narrow, treacherous hairpin bends. It did not look a well-travelled road.  
  
Gwyneth winced as cramp shot up her left leg ... she had been sleeping with it jammed into the car's steering column. She waited for the pain to subside, before getting out of the car to stretch her legs. Outside, it was already quite warm, but utterly, completely silent.  
  
She walked over to the edge of the cliff, and peered over the steel grey crash barrier. The land dropped away sharply into an impressive gorge, with a river winding serenely along the bottom of it. Looking down, it was hard to imagine that such an insignificant seeming river could have carved out such a spectacular feature. The gorge was wide enough to have forests down at the bottom, and as she looked closer, she thought she saw movement at the water's edge. She grabbed her omnioculars from her handbag, and held them up to her eyes.  
  
Tricorns! She had never seen a wild one before, but there was a whole herd, down at the water's edge, drinking. There must have been about fifty or sixty of them, all with shimmering white coats. She could quite happily have stayed there, spying on the magnificent beasts from on high, for hours on end.  
  
But their very presence proved to her that she must surely be nearing wherever they had been taken. For such creatures to roam freely, in broad daylight, so near a Muggle road, there had to be an abnormally high concentration of magic in the air. Feeling slightly buoyed by this discovery, Gwyneth returned to her car, started the engine, and was just about to drive on, when a large green truck rattled round the bend, narrowly missed her, and disappeared down the mountainside in a cloud of dust.  
  
"That was a lucky escape," she mused to herself. Then she started the engine, and pulled back onto the road. The journey continued.  
  
**************  
  
Harry dressed reluctantly in the new robes that Koschenko had brought him. They were made of the same white material that Ron had been wearing.  
  
"You look wonderful ... brilliant," said Koschenko. Harry scowled again.  
  
"What do I have to wear this crap for?" he asked. "I look like an angel in a Nativity play."  
  
Koschenko sighed deeply, then shook his head. "For the purposes of today's events," he said. "It would be most appropriate for you to wear white ... it does show off the bloodstains to great advantage."  
  
"Bloodstains?" Harry faltered.  
  
Koschenko grinned, exposing his hideous teeth. His bony eye socket seemed to be boring into Harry's soul. "Yes, Harry," he said. "Bloodstains. You do know what a bloodstain is?"  
  
Harry swallowed. I am not going to give him the satisfaction. I am not going to scream. He nodded his head.  
  
"Good ... I am so glad," said Koschenko. "We wouldn't like you to be at all unprepared for the experience you are about to endure. I believe your Godfather is to perform the deed itself. But don't worry, Harry ... it will be quick and painless ... and you won't feel a thing. That is ... until Mr. Black redeems himself to us by plunging a dagger into your still beating heart."  
  
The colour drained from Harry's face ... but he did not waver, nor falter. Koschenko almost looked disappointed. "I had expected pitiful screams," he said. "Maybe even a call for your Mother. You'll be dropping in on her soon ... I dare say they'll be pleased to see you. Even Hell has its dull days."  
  
Red hot, boiling rage was welling up inside Harry's body. He scowled, then spat on Koschenko's boots.  
  
"Most unhygienic ... don't these Muggles teach you even basic standards of cleanliness ... or are you just as filthy as your Mother's blood?"  
  
Harry closed his eyes. I am not going to do anything. I am not going to say anything. He is not going to have the satisfaction.  
  
"I see you are stronger than your feeble frame belies, Harry Potter," Koschenko said. "It really makes very little difference to me whether we break you or not, psychologically or physically, since your death is now only a matter of minutes away. All the same ... it would be nice if we could make your last breaths on this pathetic planet a living torment. You are a Half-Blood, are you not? Half-Bloods do not fit into my Master's scheme ... my Master would kill even the wizards who married Muggles for polluting themselves."  
  
Harry kept his eyes tight shut, and did not reply.  
  
"Answer me!"  
  
"Yes," said Harry. "I am Half-Blood."  
  
"What are Half-Bloods, Harry? Filthy, scum, the sty of all pestilential filth that has infected this Earth."  
  
"No," said Harry, setting his jaw. He did not dare open his eyes ... Koschenko would surely see the tears that were brimming in them.  
  
"To me, you carry the vilest stench," said Koschenko. "Your Father was a traitor to his race ... your Mother no less than a common tart."  
  
Harry said nothing.  
  
"Repeat what I said!"  
  
Harry still said nothing. Don't give him the satisfaction. You are not going to be broken. You are not going to die today. You are not going gently into that good night. You are not going to give in without a fight. You are going to live on. You are going to survive.  
  
"Repeat it!"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Repeat it lest I end your life here and now. Believe me ... I have the power, and I would unhesitatingly use it against you. Now speak!"  
  
"No."  
  
"There is fire within you, Harry. I admire your courage, if not your intelligence," hissed Koschenko. "Now repeat ... your parents were filthy, low, polluted ... they deserved what they got."  
  
"They did not," snapped Harry, he opened his eyes. Koschenko's face was mere inches from his own. Harry was staring right into his vacant eye. He could see the traces of stitching where the surgeons had done their best to sew his face back together again. "You deserve what you got. It's a pity they didn't kill you."  
  
Koschenko snarled. "Muggles did this to me, Harry ... I was just a humble soldier, fighting for my country ... alongside my comrades. My parents disapproved of me fighting for Muggles ... but I was young, and idealistic, and I wanted to do what I believed was right. Until the day when I was blown up. Since that day, Harry ... I have vowed vengeance on all those who seek to destroy or pollute my race."  
  
"But I don't!" protested Harry. "I don't seek to destroy anything, and as for your precious wizard race ... it barely exists ... just a few scattered remnants of inbred morons, like the Malfoys, and like you."  
  
Koschenko turned his nose up at Harry ... but he did not do anything. "You really should learn to hold your tongue, Harry. If we had more time, I would show you how. Unfortunately, the ceremony is about to begin. Follow me, if you please."  
  
**************  
  
The morning sun had not quite risen above the mountaintops as the Animation Chamber, deep below the fortress, began to fill up. The male guests filed into their seats, making no noise in the vast, echo filled room. There were no more than thirty of them, each wearing the white mask and black cloak of an initiated Death Eater.  
  
At precisely two minutes past seven, a gong sounded, and the braziers along the walls burst spontaneously into flame, casting their light across the chamber, and revealing a single, black cloaked figure standing before the enormous stone serpent, concealing the entrance to the tomb.  
  
Somewhere a trumpet sounded, and a low, booming voice echoed around the chamber.  
  
"Please be upstanding for our Lord and Master."  
  
A hush even greater than the one that had prevailed before seemed to descend across the audience. Footsteps could be heard descending the steps to the Chamber from the Library. Two cloaked, masked men entered the room, bearing in their arms what looked like two, sleeping children, clothed in robes of purest white. The gong sounded again.  
  
The two Death Eaters walked to the front of the room, and as they mounted the steps up to the dais, two stone coffin shaped objects rose out of the floor, stone grinding on stone. The figure already standing on the dais turned away to face the serpent as the two children were laid gently down in the coffins. An unearthly green light filled the room, and then just as quickly had faded. The coffins sank back into the floor.  
  
The Death Eaters turned to face the audience. "They give their bones and blood that ours might grow stronger," they said, raising their faces up to the ceiling above. Two green banners were hanging from some sort of gantry structure, and both of them bore the image of a silver serpent.  
  
The audience bowed their heads. Draco, standing on the dais, facing away from them, as his Father had told them to do, could hear a horrifying sound coming from within the Tomb that lay beyond the statue. It sounded like low, monotonous chanting, and it chilled him.  
  
"Let the boy turn!" the Death Eaters shouted. That was his cue ... Draco turned around to face the company, and removed the hood of his cloak. A chill rushed down his spine.  
  
The chanting was growing louder. Now three more cloaked men, whom he knew from his instruction were Voldemort, his Father and Achmed Al Tamimi, the estate manager, had entered the Chamber, and were walking slowly down towards the dais, much as a bride progressing towards the altar. They stopped before mounting the steps, and removed their cloaks. Draco could hear Voldemort's laboured breathing. His Father and Al Tamimi remained behind as Voldemort slowly climbed up, onto the dais. The congregation gasped collectively.  
  
Voldemort turned, and beckoned Draco forwards to stand next to him. Then he spoke.  
  
"I stand before you a changed man. I am no longer the fine specimen of humanity that I once was ... I am weakened, and for this reason, we gather upon Draco's birthday to pass the torch on to a new generation ... that the flame of Dark Magic might not die out."  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and bit his lip.  
  
"Draco ... your arm please."  
  
Draco rolled up his sleeve, and offered out his left arm.  
  
Voldemort took the arm, and Draco immediately felt the flesh burning. Voldemort's grip was tight, about midway between his elbow and his shoulder. He looked down, and could see Voldemort scraping a long, yellowing fingernail across his arm. Draco could smell burning meat, and he knew it was his own flesh. The pain was unbearable, but his Father had told him if he showed emotion, the pain would be revisited upon him a thousand fold. He could not cry this time.  
  
"It is done," said Voldemort, releasing his arm, and holding it up for the audience to see. There was a collective glance as they saw the black, glowing mark that now disfigured Draco's arm, just below the shoulder.  
  
The pride on his Father's face was evident. Draco bit his lip again. The deed was done ... they were bonded. He could not quite believe it had happened.  
  
Now Voldemort spoke again. "Draco is sixteen today," he said. "Today, he progresses from the state of boyhood to the state of manhood. Thus is he deemed worthy to enter into our organisation? I believe the answer is yes. I am assured by Lucius Malfoy that the boy's education and upbringing have been suitably severe, that he has been schooled in the Dark Arts, and that he is worthy to be considered a Death Eater."  
  
The congregation cooed their appreciation. Voldemort was still holding Draco's hand up for all to see, and Draco could feel it aching as the blood drained from it.  
  
"Thus, I give you Draco Malfoy. As I look upon this young man now, starting upon his life's work, that someday will lead, I am sure, to greatness in his time, I am reminded not only of myself, on the day I joined the Silver Serpent, all those years ago, but of Draco's Father, who stands before us. I initiated him as well, and so this is the second generation of Malfoys that I have set on their way to greatness in my name. Draco ... I honour you."  
  
He released Draco's arm, and before the boy had fully grasped what was going on, what was happening, he had fallen to the floor in front of him, and was bowing. Lord Voldemort, bowing to his feet!  
  
Now his Father stepped up onto the stage. "My esteemed guests, friends, countrymen. It is my great pleasure to be able to welcome our Lord and Master here today, that my son might at last be baptised into our sect, a day for which I know he has been waiting. Draco, will you please step forward and read your oath."  
  
Draco found himself being shoved to the front of the stage, and only now he became aware of how everybody was staring at him.   
  
His Father produced his wand, and muttering the words of a spell Draco could not hear, shot words into the air. They hung before Draco's eyes.  
  
"Well ... read it," hissed his Father.  
  
"I hereby swear on my life," Draco began to read, feeling as he did so Voldemort's icy breath on his cheek. He crossed his fingers behind his back, where nobody could see. "That I will uphold the sacred laws of the Silver Serpent. That I will rain fire upon all who seek to pollute our noble blood, that I will be merciless in my hounding of those who seek to ... to destroy me. I shall remain true to the code set out by the Lord of the Dark Side ... insert name here," his Father scowled. "Oh, Voldemort, sorry ... by Voldemort. Moreover, I shall dedicate my life, and all that is mine to him, laying down my life in the defence of his own. I shall emulate him in every way. I shall remain true to the great cult of the Silver Serpent, and revere our founder, Salazar Slytherin as I revere my Father. This oath I sign in my ... my own blood, offering up what gives me life as a token of my everlasting bond."  
  
His Father had grabbed him by the arm, and before Draco could stop him, had produced a knife from within his robe, and cut Draco across the palm of his left hand. Warm, crimson blood oozed forth from the wound. Once again, his arm was held up for all to see. The blood trickled down Draco's freezing cold arm. It felt hot against his skin.  
  
"Proceed," hissed Voldemort. "Bring on the offerings."  
  
Malfoy clapped his hands. Draco looked up into his eyes, and could have sworn the man was on the verge of crying. He looked down at his feet. The gong sounded once again.  
  
"All rise for the offering!" commanded Voldemort. The congregation got to their feet, their heads were still bowed.  
  
Voldemort began to speak. "Oh, Father of our kind ..."  
  
"Oh, Father of our kind," the chant rose up from the company.  
  
"Thy name be revered. We beseech thee to be benevolent towards us ... your slaves."  
  
The words were repeated.  
  
"We beseech thee to accept the offering of human blood which we provide. May the knowledge, wisdom, and guidance that you give us be with us now, and for evermore."  
  
"We beseech thee to accept the offering of human blood which we provide. May the knowledge, wisdom, and guidance that you give us be with us now, and for evermore."  
  
"We salute your flag."  
  
One of the green banners had descended from the ceiling of the chamber. Now Draco could see everyone was standing stiffly to attention, each and every single one of them had their right arm raised into the air, palm facing forwards. His Father and Voldemort were doing the same. Draco thought it would probably be best if he saluted too, so he did.  
  
"We stand before the symbol you have given us. All deeds that we perform are performed in your name. We seek only that you may guide us in our task, that we might keep our race sacred and pure, and free of pollution from those who daily spit upon us. Oh, almighty Slytherin, we stand before you, and offer up our undying loyalty to your cause."  
  
The gong sounded again, and the congregation lowered their hands. Voldemort, Draco, and his Father all turned to face them again. Another group of people was entering the chamber. There were four masked Death Eaters, each of them carrying a staff tipped with a glowing green light, flanking as they walked seven people, who were manacled together, dressed in flimsy white robes, heads bowed as they came. With a start of horror, Draco spotted Hermione.  
  
The 'offerings' were led slowly down the aisle separating the two halves of the congregation, who turned their heads to watch them go. Now Draco could see them clearly. Harry was there, too ... Ron, Fred and George, and Sirius. One of them he could not recognise, a small boy who, had he been wearing shoes, would have been shivering in them. He had a very tanned complexion, jet black hair, and eyes ... eyes of steely grey, like Draco's own.  
  
The group halted at the foot of the steps leading up to the dais. Now Voldemort waved his hands, and exclaimed something in a language alien to Draco's ears. As if by magic ... which presumably was just what it was, a section of the stone floor at Draco's feet seemed to turn to liquid, and then vanished before his very eyes. Rising out of the floor to take its place was a stone pedestal, itself carved expertly into the shape of a coiled snake, resting on its head a flat table like surface, upon which were a set of daggers, two silver goblets, and an exquisite jug, shaped to resemble the open mouth of a dragon. There was some unidentifiable green liquid inside it, steaming gently in the cold surroundings of the chamber.  
  
His Father waved him forwards. "Take your pick, Draco," he breathed.  
  
Draco hesitated for a brief moment, before choosing the smallest dagger. He picked it up, and gasped at how heavy it was. His Father looked on, with a faint grin playing around his face.  
  
"Release Black," he boomed.  
  
The two Death Eaters standing either side of Sirius stepped up to him, and undid the manacles that were chaining him to Harry. Sirius looked up, rubbing his wrists. He was staring at Draco and Lucius with an emotion that went beyond pure, unadulterated hatred spread across his features.  
  
Voldemort picked up the jug, and poured a little out into one of the goblets, he then stepped forwards, and handed the goblet to Sirius.  
  
"You will drink," he commanded.  
  
"First, I know what this is," said Sirius.  
  
Voldemort sneered, a look of cold command on his face. "It is a little something to ensure you do as we wish you to," he said.  
  
"I will not touch it."  
  
"You will, I think," said Malfoy, stepping forwards. "If you wish to see another sunrise."  
  
"Don't touch it!" bellowed Harry. The Death Eaters hissed in anger, turned around, and struck him hard on the head with their staffs. Harry sunk to the floor, and collapsed in a heap.  
  
Voldemort was angry. "Must everything I do be reduced to the level of a complete farce?" he demanded of Malfoy. "Can you not just get one thing right? I wanted Potter to be awake to be able to face the terror of imminent death! These were my wishes. You are in danger of displeasing me, Malfoy."  
  
"I humble myself before you," said Malfoy, staring down at the ground. Draco almost smirked. Hermione was staring at him, mouth wide open. For a second, he thought he saw her mouth, 'Draco ... why?' He ached to tell her, but knew he could not.  
  
"Potter must be awakened before the ceremony can proceed," said Voldemort. "I suggest your Death Eaters be punished."  
  
"Quite," sneered Malfoy.  
  
"But first, bring round the boy," hissed Voldemort. "I want him woken."  
  
Malfoy stepped off the dais, and waving his wand at Ron, who was trying to get to Harry, knelt down beside the boy's prone form.  
  
"It is not serious," he said. "He breathes."  
  
"Awaken him!"  
  
"Ennervate," breathed Malfoy.  
  
**************  
  
Harry twitched slightly, and then opened his eyes. His head was pounding as though someone had set off a nuclear bomb inside his skull. A wavy, undefined shape that could have been a human face was swimming before his eyes.  
  
"Harry," someone said. "Harry ... are you okay?"  
  
"Mum?" he burbled, not fully aware of what he was saying.  
  
"No, Harry Potter. Open your eyes, and see the terror that stands before you."  
  
The face swam into focus. It was Lucius Malfoy. He hadn't been dreaming ... he wasn't in bed at Hogwarts, worrying about his homework.  
  
"To your feet, boy," said Malfoy. "Your final destiny awaits you."  
  
Harry sat up ... he was lying on the stone floor of the chamber he had been led into. All eyes in the hall were upon him, and there was a dull ache in his scar. Slowly, he looked up ... the pain seemed to worsen, momentarily. Standing on the dais at the front of the room were Draco and another man ... Voldemort.  
  
Ron helped him to his feet. Harry was sweating, he felt ill, he could tell he was crying, even though he could not feel any tears on his face.  
  
"See how he weeps!" scowled Malfoy. "See how he wishes his accursed parents had joined our side. They might well have lived. You do know that, don't you Harry?"  
  
Harry did not dignify him with a reply.  
  
"I see we are going to get no further," said Malfoy. "Now ... Black ... lest we kill Harry prematurely, drink."  
  
Sirius scowled again, and without saying anything, put the goblet to his lips, and downed the contents in one gulp. Then he looked to Harry, and the expression on his face said it all.  
  
"We're fucked," whispered Harry, shuddering as another jolt of pain hit him. He could see Ron looking fearfully at him, and hear Hermione's sobs behind him. What was happening? Was, he hardly dared believe it ... was what Koschenko had said true?  
  
"Bring the three Weasley boys to the portal," commanded Voldemort. The Death Eaters grabbed Ron, Fred and George, and hauled them onto the dais. The boys were lined up before the statue of the snake, and as Harry and Hermione looked on, aghast, were pushed to their knees before it.  
  
Voldemort was almost smiling. "These boys," he said. "Are the sons of Arthur Weasley ... the Weasleys have always had respect, honour amongst wizards ... but they have one flaw. They would seek to pollute us by consorting with Muggles ... by honouring their achievements."  
  
The congregation, still hidden under their hoods, murmured in disapproval. Ron yelled. "It isn't true!"  
  
One of the Death Eaters cuffed him round the back of the head, and he cried out in pain.  
  
"Shut up Ron," Harry was whispering. "Don't make them any more angry than they are. There might just be a chance."  
  
"It is true," said Voldemort, again turning to look at Harry, who could feel goose pimples rising all over his body. A surge of pain swept across him again, and he almost blacked out. Voldemort continued to speak. "The Weasleys are the worst kind of traitors. But in the last few days, we have cut a swathe through this family. The youngest daughter, Ginny, currently in hospital, fights for her life ... the other sons are here, trembling with fear before my mightiness, and such is another family who would seek to challenge my power torn asunder."  
  
The congregation murmured its approval.  
  
"What say we spill their blood to open the portal?" snarled Voldemort.  
  
Harry watched as Malfoy seized Draco by the arm, and marched him over to where Ron, Fred and George were kneeling on the floor.  
  
"Their throats must be slit ... cleanly," hissed Malfoy. Harry covered his eyes. He could not bear to watch. The entire chamber seemed to have fallen practically silent. He could hear nothing, save for Ron, who was crying.  
  
**************  
Draco stood before them. He looked into Ron's eyes, and such a look of pleading, he had never seen before. Could he do it? What would happen to him if he did? He did not want murder on his conscience.  
  
"What keeps you, Draco? This is a task all Death Eaters must face. It will prove to me you are truly worthy," said his Father.  
  
Draco looked at Ron again. Tears were pouring down the other boy's face. Slowly, he moved his lips. "Please," he gasped.  
  
"You will be punished, Draco," snarled his Father. "If you do not spill their blood upon the floor."  
  
Draco shook his head. "I can't," he said.  
  
"Draco ... I am warning you ... do not embarrass me in front of our guests."  
  
"Please," squealed Draco. "Father ... don't make me kill anyone!"  
  
His Father grabbed him by the hand again. "If you do not obey me, Draco, I will make sure you experience pain of a kind so violent you will never recover from it. As it is you will be beaten severely for such stubbornness."  
  
"Father ... I won't do it."   
  
"Must you be such a pathetic little weed?" he roared. "I have done everything for you ... I have arranged for this ceremony to take place ... I have given you my unconditional love,"   
  
"Well, maybe I don't want it!" sobbed Draco, tears now pouring down his face. Voldemort was shaking his head in sheer disgust. "Maybe I never wanted it ..."  
  
Malfoy sneered at his son. The congregation was murmuring amongst themselves.  
  
Draco looked back into Ron's eyes ... he could see Fred and George looking on, he could feel Voldemort's eyes boring into his back.  
  
"Please," whispered Ron, his voice sounding a million times louder in the oppressive silence that had descended over the Chamber. "I'm begging you ..."   
  
"Kill the boy, Draco."  
  
Draco glowered at his Father. He had never felt such hatred for a man as he did now ... and then he saw his chance. The dagger was clasped tightly in his sweating, bloody palm. Now he knew what he must do ... end this charade now. Slowly, he stood up.  
  
"I command you to perform the sacrifice," snarled his Father.  
  
Draco shook his head. "No," he said. "No ... I will not do it. I will not give my life to you creeps. I had my fingers crossed the whole time I said that crappy oath. I hate this ... I hate it here, and I hate you! I want to go home."  
  
"Blasphemer!" roared his Father. "Do you seek to die too, Draco? Or are you just exceptionally stupid?"  
  
"I seek to live my own fucking life!" yelled Draco. "I seek to live it the way I want to ... with the people I want to, with the friends I want to! You mean nothing to me. I'd renounce my own name. I'd renounce the ancestors ... the whole sodding pack of them. What good have the buggers ever done for me? Eh?"  
  
His Father was staring at him with a look of, not disgust, but sorrow spreading across his face. "I do not understand, Draco. What have I done that you turn against me so violently?"  
  
"You really want to know?" asked Draco, only dimly aware that the entire congregation were on the edge of their seats.  
  
His Father nodded. "Yes, Draco. I do."  
  
"Every time you laid a finger on me ... every time, you were just getting one step closer, one more footstep down the line towards making me despise every sinew of your body. I could never love a man as a Father who would beat up his children. I remember when I was seven, and you hit Mother, and I cried all night because I was so worried about her, except you didn't know that? Did you? I kept that from you well. Everybody cries, Father. Live with it!"  
  
"Kill the boy," hissed Voldemort.  
  
His Father turned. "Master?"  
  
"You said to me, when last we met in England ... you would kill Draco if you had to. Now I want you to do it. He has proven himself unworthy to be considered a Death Eater. Perhaps his blood will be of some use to us."  
  
"Master ... I," his Father turned back to look at Draco.  
  
Draco sneered. "Go on then, Father. Do it. End it now. End my life."  
  
"I cannot," his Father dropped the dagger he was holding, it fell to the floor with a harsh clatter that echoed through the still air. "Master ... I cannot kill my own son. I believed that I could, but I know I never can."  
  
"If you do not," said Voldemort. "Then I will."  
  
"Master ... no!"  
  
Voldemort turned to the congregation. "If you would follow Lord Voldemort?" he asked, his eyes roving along every row. "You will stand, now."  
  
Draco turned to see. Everyone was standing up. He looked from Voldemort, to his Father, and then to the door. It seemed so distant. If he ran ... he could make it. He tensed ... he could feel a surge of adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream ... his heart, pumping fit to bust.  
  
"Seize him," hissed Voldemort.  
  
Draco felt the hands of the Death Eaters on his shoulders. He tried to kick out, but his foot only made contact with thin air. He let out a yell. The Death Eaters forced him down to the floor, so that he was kneeling next to Ron and the other Weasleys.  
  
Ron turned to look him in the eye. Draco gritted his teeth as his hands were bound tightly together behind his back.  
  
Voldemort was standing over him. "How can we make your humiliation complete, Draco?" he asked.  
  
"Just kill me now," snarled Draco. "At least then I don't have to listen to you anymore."  
  
"You will die," said Voldemort. "But right now ... I feel like I should have a little fun."  
  
"Master!" his Father was sobbing. "Don't kill him ... don't kill my boy."  
  
"You will remain silent, Malfoy ... lest I decide to kill you as well. Draco will be the sacrifice to open the Tomb."  
  
He leant forwards, and put his hand on Draco's throat. Draco could feel the skin blistering and peeling as Voldemort's grip tightened.  
  
"You're not enjoying this very much, are you, Draco?" he asked.  
  
Draco resolved to say nothing. The pain in his throat was rising. He felt like he was going to gag. Finally, Voldemort released him.  
  
"An old magical torture device," said Voldemort. "The Throat Constrictor. It is, of course, only possible to perform it given years and years of practice and training. Thankfully, for me at least, I am well versed in the ancient methods. Your Father, Draco, prefers more modern techniques. They are less influenced by the arts magical, yet they are no less effective."  
  
Draco sneered. "What is your point, exactly?" he asked.  
  
"Do not try and be brave before me, Draco," said Voldemort. "It is not at all fitting for the circumstances. Tragic heroism has always left me cold, to be quite frank. Do you know, Draco, that I have the power to inflict upon your body pain and suffering beyond the capabilities of your worst nightmares?"  
  
Draco rubbed his throat, which was still smarting from where Voldemort had touched him. "No you don't," he said.  
  
"I warn you not to defy me," said Voldemort. "Since you seem unremorseful in my sight, I think perhaps we should try another curse," he levelled his wand at Draco's chest, and breathed,"... Enfarctus Cardiacii."  
  
For a couple of seconds, Draco could not feel anything, and he looked up at Voldemort with an expression of extreme puzzlement on his face. Then he felt a dull ache in his chest ... it felt like it did whenever he swallowed something too hot too quickly. But very quickly, the pain had gone beyond that stage. It seemed to be getting worse.  
  
"What have you done?" asked Draco.  
  
Voldemort smiled, mysteriously. "You will see," he said.  
  
The pain was still worsening. And now it seemed to be spreading, down his arms, down his left side. He couldn't breathe ... it felt like everything in his body was shutting down. And such pain in his chest as he had never heard. Is this what dying is like?  
  
Draco screamed as his chest seemed to explode, he could feel the muscles of his heart contracting out of control ... and then it peaked, and then faded, and everything returned to normal. Draco was breathing heavily, and only now was aware of enough sweat pouring off him to irrigate the Sahara Desert.  
  
"A mild heart attack," said Voldemort. "Effective, say not, Draco?"  
  
"You bastard!" swore Draco.  
  
"Indeed," said Voldemort, smiling even more.  
  
"Please, Master," now his Father was on his knees. "I beg of you not to hurt my boy!"  
  
"Silence," hissed Voldemort. "I will hurt whomsoever I desire, Malfoy. If your son happens to be in the way ... well, then that is his problem, say not?"  
  
Draco was still kneeling on the floor, convulsing violently, it looked almost as though he was having some sort of a fit. Ron stared at him in alarm.  
  
Voldemort stepped over to the table with the daggers on it, and selected the largest, pointiest one there. The handle was ornate, gilt, inlaid with sparkling red jewels that might have been rubies, but were probably bits of cut glass. The blade was a thing of beauty. It shimmered in the half-light, tapering to a point so thin, and so sharp, that it hurt just to look at it.  
  
Ron watched as Voldemort walked round to stand between Draco and the statue.  
  
"I choose this instrument of lethality," he whispered. "Because it seems to me the most fitting thing that it should be your demise, Draco. This belonged to your Great-Grandfather, who gave it to me at the moment of his execution. I was a young man then, foolish and naïve, but I could see even then its huge potentiality. And now, its moment of glory is to come to pass."  
  
Draco swallowed. "If you are going to kill me," he said. "Let me die standing upright."  
  
"You are brave and honourable," said Voldemort. "And were I likewise, as you, Draco. I would let you stand before me. However, I have been fooled by such tricks in the past."  
  
Before Draco could do anything, Voldemort's arm had flashed forwards, and the blade plunged straight into Draco's chest, up to the hilt. Warm, thick, crimson blood poured out and down his robes. Voldemort let go of the handle.  
  
"Almighty Slytherin, accept this offering of human blood and flesh that the Tomb might be opened," he muttered, under his breath.  
  
Draco spluttered. He gasped for breath. Breathing seemed to be getting harder. Slowly, he looked up. Voldemort's eyes were inches from his own.  
  
"You killed me," he gasped. "In cold blood."  
  
Voldemort shook his head. "No," he said. "My blood's never cold."  
  
Draco felt no pain. It was pleasantly dreamlike, almost as though he was drifting through space. Almost peaceful. He could barely hear the anguished sobbing of his Father ... he hardly noticed the blood collecting in a pool around his knees, and as a wave of darkness swept over him, he failed to hear the rumbling, grinding sound as the statue opened. And then nothing more.  
  
**************  
Hermione screamed, and tried to run forwards, but the Death Eaters were on their feet, holding her back, holding her down. And she watched as the statue of the serpent retracted into the ground, and as she looked into the next room, her mouth dropped open.  
  
Standing right in the centre of the room was a huge, stone, sarcophagus. The lid was off, and an unreal red light seemed to be emanating from it. She felt one of the Death Eaters push his staff into the small of her back, and she stumbled forwards, still chained to Harry and the other boy, whose name she did not know. They were forced onto the dais. Ron looked up at them; he was shaking uncontrollably. Fred and George were clinging fearfully to each other.  
  
"On your feet," hissed Voldemort. "Stand before the Tomb."  
  
Ron, Fred and George climbed slowly and awkwardly to their feet. Their bare knees and ankles were soaked with blood ... mostly Draco's.  
  
"Master," began Lucius Malfoy, looking up. There were tears pouring down his face. "Please help me."  
  
Voldemort, if he had had the kind of face to display emotion, would have looked very bored indeed, for he sighed mightily. "Your son was not worthy," he said, in a monotone. "It is a pity, but there you go."  
  
Malfoy dropped to his knees next to Draco's corpse. He leant down over the body, and planted the tiniest of kisses on his forehead.  
  
"I always loved you," he said, his voice sounding as though it might crack at any moment. "Whatever may have passed between us. I was always proud."  
  
Hermione would have said something, but didn't think it especially appropriate ... besides, he had that look on his face, pallid, inconsolable. Perhaps he really was telling the truth. Perhaps he really had loved his child, albeit in a twisted, horrible way. Perhaps I had him wrong.  
  
"You are wasting time, Malfoy," said Voldemort, sounding evermore impatient. "The first rays of the sun will strike the altar in two minutes time. For all our sakes, the ceremony must proceed."  
  
"You would take two sons away from me?" asked Malfoy, looking up. Voldemort looked stunned, although that probably was not the correct word to describe it.  
  
"Why, yes," said Voldemort. "Human life means nothing to me. I would take the lives of all here if it would further my aims."  
  
"Then perhaps you are not the great man I assumed you to be," said Malfoy, looking up into Voldemort's vile red eyes. "Is there not a shred of humanity remaining in that breast? See what you have reduced me to? See what you have taken away from me?"  
  
Voldemort stepped closer; snarled at Malfoy. "You are wasting my time," he said. "Greater will be my wrath if we delay any longer."  
  
Malfoy wasn't listening. He was cradling Draco's now limp form in his arms, the boy's hair brushing against his chin. He looked tranquil, almost as though he was asleep, but then there was the slashed robe, and the gaping stab wound across his chest.  
  
"Please," he repeated. "Please, Draco. Forgive me."  
  
"Up, Malfoy," Voldemort said again. "You are wasting time," he gestured to the opened Tomb. Sure enough, from some unseen source, a beam of intense light was falling across the floor, illuminating the inscriptions carved into the slabs. Hermione craned closer to see them. They were dates ... dates and names ...  
  
Vladimir Dracula Malfoy - 1468-1545.  
Antonius Cassiopeia Malfoy - 1526-1600.  
  
It seemed to be scrolling through a list of names, like a computer screen ...  
  
Temperance Malfoy - 1615-1644  
George Arthur Malfoy - 1761-1781  
  
She stared, transfixed as the names were somehow projected onto the back wall. The sunlight was nearing the sarcophagus.  
  
Axminster Malfoy - 1872-1916  
  
"Malfoy! Make haste. It is nearly time!"  
  
The beam of light was slowing ...  
  
Thomas Fitzpatrick 'Red Gun' Malfoy - 1962-1990  
Draco Malfoy - 1979-1995  
  
It stopped. Draco's name flickered, and then faded. Then a moaning, a low, horrible moaning, seemed to echo around the Tomb. They stood in silence at the doorway, not daring to move.  
  
"Who invokes my power?" a voice asked, an ancient voice, enunciating the words with difficulty, a gritty voice, a voice that had not spoken for generations, a voice which did not belong in the Twentieth Century.  
  
Voldemort straightened up. "It is Lord Voldemort," he said. "I bring sacrifices. I bring resurrection. I bring redemption."  
  
"Say your name," came the voice again.  
  
"Lord Voldemort," he repeated.  
  
"The prophecy cannot be wrong," growled the voice. "The prophecy said: Tom Riddle."  
  
Voldemort scowled, and then spat on the floor. "I do not speak of that name," he said.  
  
"Nevertheless. You are Riddle? I know what you come seeking, Riddle. I have waited a very long time for you. But first, I must be appeased. Bring me the one known as Harry Potter."  
  
"Unchain him," growled Voldemort. The two Death Eaters standing behind Harry and Hermione stepped forwards, and unlocked the manacles binding the children together. Then, seizing Harry by the scruff of his neck, causing him to yelp, they frogmarched the boy into the Tomb, and flung him to the stone floor. Harry landed on all fours.  
  
"Step closer, Harry Potter," the voice growled.  
  
Harry stood up, and brushed dust and dirt off his knees. Hermione put her hand over her mouth. "Harry?"  
  
He turned round, spread his arms wide, and shrugged, a particularly impressive, Gallic shrug that Fleur Delacour would have been proud of. He appeared to be smiling.  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"I have to do it," he said. "I don't know why, I just, I think this is something I've always known I'd have to do."  
  
"Step closer," the voice growled in increasing vexation with the recalcitrant boy.  
  
Harry seemed to be standing there, rooted to the spot. He was not moving a muscle.  
  
"I said, step closer!"  
  
A beam of red light shot across the Tomb, narrowly missing Harry's shoulder. The boy ducked ... Hermione gasped.  
  
"Step closer, or next time, it might be your head."  
  
Harry stepped forwards.  
  
"Keep coming ... towards the sarcophagus."  
  
Harry kept on walking, closer to the stone sarcophagus. It was still casting a red glow around the Tomb, and as he turned around to look back at those still standing by the door, his face was illuminated by the light.  
  
"What force holds you back, Harry Potter? This is your destiny. This is the reason you survived. This is your big exit."  
  
Harry was standing right before the sarcophagus now ... and Hermione was shocked how small he looked, how childlike. He turned round again.  
  
"Climb into the sarcophagus, Harry Potter," said the voice.  
  
Harry stood there for a second, and then clambered, slowly, into the box. Immediately, the red light went out. For a moment all was pitch black, save for the shaft of sunlight which was still falling from the ceiling and nobody could see anything. Then, as suddenly as it had gone, the light was back.  
  
Hermione watched, aghast. Harry seemed to be floating in mid air, suspended a couple of feet above the sarcophagus.   
  
But it didn't seem to be Harry. It was ... yet it looked different. As she peered closer, she could see the faintest threads of light, shooting from the walls at different angles, seemed to be holding his limp form aloft.  
  
Voldemort was looking on with an expression of unmatched joy on his face; he too, appeared to be glowing with light, although whether or not that was just a reflection of what was happening in the Tomb, she could not be sure. Hermione looked to the others. Ron, Fred and George were staring, open mouthed at Harry ... Sirius still had that glazed look in his eyes. Whatever had been in that goblet he had drunk, it was certainly having some kind of effect upon him.  
  
Harry's whole form seemed to glow a bright gold colour, and then he fell back down into the sarcophagus.  
  
"Sirius Black, Hermione Granger," the voice now spoke. "You will draw your daggers, and approach."  
  
One of the Death Eaters pressed a dagger into Hermione's outstretched hand, whilst the other unchained her from Omar Malfoy ... and almost unconsciously, as if she wasn't actually doing it, she felt her fingers close around the handle.  
  
"Step up to the sarcophagus," said the voice.  
  
Hermione shot a glance at Sirius, who was still staring blankly ahead. She noticed he too was clasping one of the daggers.  
  
Slowly, they stepped into the Tomb, and walked over to the sarcophagus, their bare feet making no noise on the marble floor.  
  
Harry was lying in the sarcophagus, his eyes shut, his hands at his side. He looked as though he were only dreaming.  
  
"Draw your daggers," said the voice. Hermione kept her hand at her side. So did Sirius.  
  
"I repeat."  
  
A light seemed to have flickered on inside Sirius' skull. Gone was the blank look. Hermione's heart leapt.  
  
"Remove the robes," said the voice.  
  
Sirius leant forwards, and put his hand on Harry's shoulder, then he gathered the material in his other hand, and tore it. The material ripped easily, exposing the flesh beneath. Still, Harry seemed to be asleep. Hermione had never seen him like this before. How handsome he looks, she thought, then caught herself.  
  
"Who is to make the primary incision?" the voice said. "I think ... Granger. You will cut the flesh of the boy you love."  
  
Hermione stared upwards. The voice sounded as though it was coming from somewhere up in the ceiling, but the ceiling was so distant, and the Tomb so vast, she could not see anything. She almost wanted to shout out that she did not love him. But now she came to think about it. Perhaps she did ... after all.  
  
Harry's body was bathed in red light once again. He looked like a statue ... the brownish tones of summer's fading tan seemed white and neutral, and his features were ashen.  
  
A pinprick of red light, almost like a laser beam, appeared, illuminating a spot just above Harry's navel. She could sense Sirius' eyes on her.  
  
"Follow the light, Hermione," said the voice.  
  
She looked up at Sirius. His eyes seemed to be saying, 'No,' but his lips formed the words, "Proceed."  
  
She raised the dagger, and placed her hand so that the tip of the blade was resting on Harry's stomach. She watched in fascination as the boy's skin turned white where the pressure was cutting off his capillaries.  
  
Another hand reached out, and touched hers. She took her eyes off Harry's form, and stared upwards. Sirius was leaning over the body. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he winked at her.  
  
"When I give the word," he said. "Fling that dagger across the room ... hard as you can."  
  
"Cut," the voice hissed.  
  
"Now," whispered Sirius.  
  
Hermione jerked her hand upwards, and threw the dagger away. She heard it clatter to the floor in a dark corner somewhere.  
  
A deathly silence had descended across the Tomb. The watchers standing at the door, the congregation, outside in the Chamber ... not a sound could be heard emanating from either.  
  
"What is this blasphemy within my Tomb?" the voice asked. "Riddle? Explain yourself."  
  
Voldemort stepped into the Tomb, and it was only now Hermione could see that he was shaking, almost convulsing ... not through excitement, not through joy, but through cold, mind blowing fear.  
  
"I do not know, Lord Slytherin."  
  
Sirius leant down over the sarcophagus, and gently put his hands underneath Harry's back, lifting him clear of the cold stone, as effortlessly as though the child had been a sack of potatoes. Harry's head flopped backwards. He was still unconscious. Whatever the sarcophagus had done to him, it had knocked him out with it.  
  
"So, Sirius Black," said Voldemort, stopping a few paces away from the three of them, and slowly withdrawing his wand from within the folds of his cloak. "You do seem determined to upset the course of the Ceremony, do you not?"  
  
Sirius scowled. He was still holding Harry in his arms. To Hermione, they looked like some kind of perfume commercial. Tension for Wizards, maybe.  
  
"Your fun and games are over, Voldemort. Why don't you leave the playground, before I make you?"  
  
Voldemort cocked his head to one side. "Such niceties are all very well," he snarled. "But I have always considered them childish. Perhaps it is you who belongs in the playground. At any rate, you should have been dead many years ago. It is only a miracle, ordained by Heaven, that you have lived as long as you have. It is only a miracle that has brought your precious child fifteen years of extra time. Well, now extra time is up, Black. Nobody has won. I believe, that means we go to penalties?"  
  
"Who said anything about Quidditch?" growled Sirius. "You and me, Voldemort. You and me. If I am to die today, then I shall die knowing I did not let you take my Godson from me," he turned to Hermione. "Go!" he hissed.  
  
At these words, the grinding sound started up again, and slowly, the light entering the Tomb from the Chamber outside began fading. The statue was closing up again.  
  
"GO!" roared Sirius.  
  
Hermione did not need telling twice ... she turned on her heels, and ran from the Tomb, enveloping Ron in a hug that nearly knocked him off his feet. The portal slammed shut, and for a second everything was pitch black. Then Voldemort hissed, "Lumos."  
  
The tip of his wand aglow with ethereal light, casting his face in shadow and making him look like some kind of a phantom, Voldemort stepped closer.  
  
Voldemort turned back to Sirius. "How chivalrous. Women and children first. However, you still hold the boy I want. Return him to the sarcophagus, Black, and then continue with the sacrifice."  
  
Sirius shook his head. "I will not," he said.  
  
"Even if you can wake him," said Voldemort. "Which you cannot, he will not know you. The sarcophagus is an energy trap. It drains the body, completely, of everything ... mind, matter and soul. Harry's very being is so depleted, he is as an empty husk. Why don't you put him back in there, and end it for him. He will have no life left if you do not."  
  
"He is stronger than that," said Sirius. "He is not going to be defeated that easily. Neither am I, come to think about it."  
  
"Admirable sentiments," said Voldemort. He stepped closer, his hand outstretched, long bony fingers. He touched Harry lightly on the chest. The skin seemed to crinkle underneath his touch.  
  
"What are you doing?" asked Sirius.  
  
"He is as good as dead, Black," said Voldemort. "I really do suggest you do what is best for him. End his days here, now."  
  
Voldemort's hand moved slowly up Harry's chest, across the breastbone, to the bottom of his neck, leaving a trail of darkened skin. Sirius did nothing.  
  
Voldemort took his hand off Harry, and looked up into Sirius' eyes. "You were drugged," he said. "Why are you resisting it?"  
  
Sirius grinned. "That drug ... that was Dragon's Blood potion, wasn't it?"  
  
Voldemort nodded. "How could you have known?"  
  
Sirius grinned even more broadly. "Dracaena Draco ... the Dragon Tree. Of course. You know, Voldemort, I would have thought your imagination could have stretched to better things. I took so much of that stuff back in the Seventies ... you need more than a thimbleful to get me high. Now, will you let me wake Harry?"  
  
Voldemort seemed to be considering the question. Then, to Sirius' great surprise, he nodded. "Wake him," he said. "You will see I am right."  
  
Sirius knelt down on the floor, and placed Harry on the cold stones. His body seemed to react against the chill sensation. Sirius looked up. Voldemort was standing over them both, his wand clasped so tightly in his hand that his knucklebones were clearly visible.  
  
"You have my word I will not strike a man on the floor," said Voldemort, softly, his red eyes aglow with internal fire.  
  
Sirius placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, and gently nudged him. "Harry," he whispered. "Harry ... wake up."  
  
"That won't work," snarled Voldemort, the contempt in his voice painfully evident. "Wake him."  
  
Sirius bent closer over Harry's prone form, brushed his thick hair out of his eyes, exposing the scar. Lightly, he touched the scar. Harry's breathing seemed to be getting stronger. His chest was rising and falling again.  
  
His eyes flickered open. But Sirius saw immediately that they were not Harry's eyes. The boy looking up at him was confused, scared, and not a glimmer of recognition flashed across his face. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but not a sound came out.  
  
"What have you done to him?" asked Sirius, restraining Harry as the boy tried to sit up.  
  
"It is not what I have done," said Voldemort, "but what the sarcophagus has done. If you and the Mudblood Hermione had sacrificed him as I had asked, this would not have happened. The energy transfer would have been complete."  
  
Sirius dropped to the floor, next to Harry, who was struggling to break free of his Godfather's grip. He felt like crying, and he could see tears pouring down Harry's face.  
  
"Please, keep still," he whispered. Then he looked up at Voldemort. "Energy transfer. What is that?"  
  
Voldemort smiled. "Do not make the mistake of thinking, Black, that I am strong enough to survive on my own. I still need to drink Nagini's poison every day, and I need the energy of living men to sustain me. That is how I have lived these last few years since my resurrection. Every new victim a source of sustaining energy for me, until such time as I am strong enough to survive without them. Do you have any idea what it is like not to have eaten anything for fourteen years?"  
  
Sirius shook his head.  
  
"If you could know, if you had any idea how hungry I am, you would sympathise with me," said Voldemort. "I crave food, Black. I have not eaten since 1981. I could even tell you what my last meal was."  
  
Sirius scowled. "A pity it didn't kill you," he said.  
  
"Well, admittedly, until recently, when I was in my spirit form, I did not need to eat. But I still felt hunger. It was as if someone was punishing me."  
  
"Perhaps they were."  
  
Voldemort shook his head. "If they were, it hasn't worked," he said. "And so I have lived off the energy of the men who have died ... Bryce, the Muggle gardener, Bertha Jorkins, Cedric Diggory. Even Harry here ... I was halfway through the transfer. It only needed his death to complete the link. A link you have now succeeded in breaking. It is nothing, you understand, I will not need feeding again for at least a week."  
  
"You disgust me," Sirius scowled.  
  
"I'm so glad," said Voldemort. "You know, Black. This sarcophagus was built by Slytherin himself, a thousand years ago, for just this purpose, for the energy transfer. It was all prophesised, you see? Everything was written down."  
  
"Everything?" asked Sirius.  
  
Voldemort nodded. "The sarcophagus uses the very ancient magic present in the earth in this region. It creates a link between my body and the body within it, and the energy of the victim is transferred into me, along," he added, looking scornfully at Harry, "with some of his memories, thoughts, wants and desires."  
  
"Magic, in the earth?" said Sirius. "You mean Ley Lines, right?"  
  
Voldemort nodded. "Naxcivan is the epicentre of all the Leys in the world," he said. "They radiate out from a point some five miles distant, at the top of Devil's Spine. We are standing on one of the most powerful Leys. It runs northwest from here, connecting the two most powerful magical sites in the world. The magical source that lies underneath Devil's Spine, and the identical source that lies underneath Hog's Head Mountain, in England. The two most powerful magical sites on this world, and portals to many others, and we are standing on the line that connects them. Imagine it, Sirius Black. Imagine the raw magic arcing through the earth."  
  
"The mother lode," said Sirius. "Of course. I had heard tale it existed, but I never believed it."  
  
"Believe it, Black. You stand upon it now. The Diagonal Ley. All magic is connected, Black. You have only to seek the source, as Slytherin himself did. The source revealed tremendous things to him, even though none of us can ever know just what it is. And he had this built, all for us, all for what was to come to pass today."  
  
"You knew this was going to happen?" asked Sirius.  
  
"Not until recently," replied Voldemort. "Divination is an imprecise science. However, with the translation of the runes upon the doorway to Slytherin's last resting place, and Malfoy's excellent detective work in the region, the puzzle all fell into place, and I saw that it was my destiny. It had all been written ... the attack on Harry's parents ... your escape from Azkaban ... our meeting in the graveyard last Summer. It was all foretold. Now, one thing still puzzles me. Beyond this day, nothing more is forecast. Slytherin's writings become vague."  
  
"Perhaps it means you lose, Voldemort," hissed Sirius. Harry was staring frantically around the Tomb. He had stopped struggling, but he still maintained the air of a startled fawn.  
  
"I think not," said Voldemort. "I believe the information is contained within Harry's head. This is why I seek him now. After all, he is the one remaining heir of Slytherin, apart from myself."  
  
"What about the Malfoys?" asked Sirius, casting his eyes over to the exit. I would give a lot of money to know what is happening out there, he thought.  
  
"The Malfoys? Distantly related," said Voldemort. "The Potters, closely related. Malfoy serves a purpose, but really, he is a sideline."  
  
"How do you mean, closely related?" asked Sirius. "Malfoy said he would sacrifice his other son ... that little boy. Omar."  
  
"That might have worked," said Voldemort. "Certainly the death of Draco provided enough blood for the Tomb to open. Perhaps it would have worked. However, it would have been more effective with Harry's blood. That was going to be the next stage of the plan. We would have collected his blood, after you had killed him, and offered it up to the dragon gargoyle, and then ... who knows? As it is, you have rather ruined everything."  
  
"So Harry is related to Slytherin? To you?"  
  
Voldemort grinned. "It is what makes Harry and I the most powerful wizards this world has, or will ever know. The bloodlines become confused in the mists of time, but what is for certain, is that the Gryffindors and the Slytherins intermarried, at some point in medieval times. Harry and I are the two remaining male heirs of this union. The Malfoys are merely a branch of the family, for all their preaching about purity of blood, they are Potters, at the end of the day. Of course, technically it makes Harry and Draco very distant cousins. Very distant indeed."  
  
"It also makes you ..."  
  
"Oh, do come on, Black," said Voldemort. "You mean to tell me you had not worked it out for yourself?"  
  
"Worked out what?" asked Sirius.  
  
"I, too, am one of his cousins," said Voldemort. "But we are the last ones left. There are no more. When I have the information I seek, Harry will die, and then there will be only me. And I will know the secrets that will permit me to consolidate my long overdue power."  
  
"You're mad," snapped Sirius.  
  
"Regrettably," nodded Voldemort. "Now, do you return Harry to the sarcophagus? I assure you, it would be better for him ..."  
  
He stopped, short.  
  
"Listen."  
  
There was a long, low rumbling. Voldemort stared up at the ceiling. The whole room seemed to be shaking.  
  
"Earthquake?" asked Sirius. Harry whimpered in fear, and wrapped his arms around his Godfather.  
  
Voldemort shook his head. "Sunrise," he hissed. "Black ... I have underestimated you. You have kept me talking all this time, and now we have missed the crucial hour."  
  
Sure enough, the beam of light falling from the ceiling had hit the dragon gargoyle, and now it seemed to be getting bigger. Both men looked up ... the ceiling above them seemed to retract, again with that same grinding noise of stone upon stone, of ancient machinery working centuries old joists and wheels. A piercing beam of light flooded into the Tomb. All three of them blinked in the sudden rush of brightness. Now, looking up, Sirius could see the red, fiery sun rising into the crystal clear morning sky. The altar began to tremble, and the sarcophagus to shake. Voldemort grabbed onto Sirius' robe in panic.  
  
"It cannot be allowed to happen this way!" Voldemort yelled at the top of his voice. Masonry and bits of stonework were coming crashing down, splintering the beautifully laid marble flooring into thousands of tiny pieces. "This cannot be how it was forecast."  
  
The rumbling ceased, as suddenly as it had begun. The dust began to settle. Harry was crying, burying his face in Sirius' arms. From the other side of the portal could be heard screams, shouts, and running footsteps.  
  
Voldemort turned to Sirius. "Now," he said. "Give me Harry. I can still make this work. There must still be time ... the Lazarus Potion. The Army of the Dead!"  
  
Sirius scowled. "We already went over this," he sighed. "The answer is no."  
  
And then another voice spoke. Loud, booming, it echoed around the Tomb like gunshot, and both of them realised it was the voice they had heard earlier.  
  
"That will not be necessary. As you can see, I am back," smirked Salazar Slytherin.  
  
A/N  
  
Thank you all so much for reviewing me ... reviews are lifeblood ... more, more! Thanks go out to the following, Sinead, Karina (thanks so much for beta-ing, as ever), Amanita, Keith (enough of a comeuppance for 'ya), Cassandra Claire (my 'vengeance' for Draco Dexter is exacted ... ha!), heidi tandy, Inspiring Author, magical*little*me (I wasn't thinking of Russian princesses, but it's a cool name, n'est pas?), Cassie Lee (you won the last round by three lines), cutiepie, Viola (subtext ... where ... anyway, thanks for all your work), Lizzy, Kayara (whatever your name is right now m'dear), Sanna (actually, I blocked myself in on Part 12), Portia, Eskalia, Simon (you might die, you might not, haven't decided yet), Elyssa, dani (I try to be funny, it doesn't often work, but thanks anyway), Arabella, and Ceano, (who later changed that name to Adacini, no slash was implied). Virtual hugs all round then, and a hearty pat on the back for the lads! Till next time!  
  



	12. Game Over

DRACAENA DRACO.  
  
A/N  
  
Um ... hello.  
  
Sorry.  
  
I won't say much more ... but, here it is ...  
  
I do have to say that I do not think this is especially good myself. However, I was so desperate to get myself writing again, that I created my very own Plot Device monster (a la Teenage Witches) which you may periodically spot dropping things into the story here and there.  
  
As usual, most of the characters and concepts, and at least one of the locations used in this story are the exclusive property of J.K. Rowling, respective publishing houses and assorted other companies. I own none of it, and do not imply ownership.  
  
This part appears with profuse apologies to Terry Pratchett ... Dragon Riders appear in Colour of Magic (which I recommend) and there are other Discworld snippets, as well as the random pickings from Red Dwarf and other stuff ... do read on ...  
  
PART TWELVE. GAME OVER.  
  
'There's a black dog on my shoulder again,  
Licking my neck and saying he's my friend ...'  
  
(Manic Street Preachers, 1998)  
  
**************  
  
Slytherin stood before them, the outline of his form vaguely blurry, as if he was not entirely there. Of course he was not. He was still a spirit. Nothing more.  
  
Voldemort bowed his head, slightly. "I stand before you, Master," he said, his voice almost cracking, though Sirius was not sure whether this was through fear, or excitement ... or what ...  
  
Slytherin's ghostly, almost transparent face seemed to crack into a vague grin. "I can see that," he said ... the ground shook again, throwing him slightly out of focus, and making him look like a wonky television signal. "Maybe not for much longer ..." he added.  
  
"Master?" Voldemort asked, a note of worry creeping into his tone.  
  
"This Castle is collapsing, Riddle. Even now the so called Death Eaters, those who you thought were worthy to serve you, are fleeing for their miserable, worthless lives."  
  
"The Castle is as sturdy as it has ever been," snarled Voldemort, the expression on his face making it abundantly clear to Sirius, who was still clutching Harry, that there was absolutely no love lost at all between the two men. He held Harry tighter, until he could feel the boy's heart, beating feebly against his arm.  
  
Slytherin shook his head. "I am astounded, Riddle, that in your self delusional arrogance, you purport to presume that you know every secret this Castle holds within its walls?"  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Voldemort.  
  
"I mean that this Castle, which seems so solid, is built on the plug of a volcano, a very ancient volcano," said Slytherin, his face barely disguising his glee at this fact. "I dared to presume it extinct when I had the structure built, but even I was fallible. I was wrong, the volcano is angry, and she is waking up."  
  
"Angry?" asked Voldemort. "Angry with what, exactly?"  
  
"A thousand years of abuse, Riddle. For a thousand years now, Dark Magic of the most evil, of the vilest kind, has been practiced here, upon this very site. The raw energy pervading locally has angered the living rocks. This volcano will erupt, violently, in ... around twenty minutes time, I should imagine," the ground shook again, and there seemed to be a gaseous, noxious smell hanging in the air ... sulphur.  
  
"You knew this was going to happen?" asked Voldemort.  
  
Slytherin sneered. "Of course I did, imbecilic fool," he snapped. "I know all ... I am omniscient."  
  
"Then we must not delay," said Voldemort. "We must perform the rites ... the Lazarus Potion."  
  
Slytherin, however, was not listening to a word the other man was saying. His eyes snapped on to Sirius and Harry, as if noticing them for the first time. "Who are they?" he asked, effectively rendering his previous statement a blatant falsehood.  
  
"The boy is Harry Potter," explained Voldemort. "We were midway through the energy transfer ... this madman of a Godfather tried to save his boy's worthless life ..."  
  
Slytherin stepped closer, and before Sirius could react, was kneeling down before him, where he crouched with Harry on the marble floor, near the ancient sarcophagus. He stretched out his phantom hand, touched Harry's cheek, running his finger along the line of the bone. Sirius could feel Harry shivering against him. His eyes were wide, and in those eyes of sparkling green, Slytherin's haggard, wrinkled, ugly face was reflected.  
  
"This boy carries my blood," breathed Slytherin. "He is ... I have never seen one who looked so like me ... and yet, at the same time, so unlike me. The face is mine ... the hair is ... the hair is Godric's."  
  
Voldemort was nodding his agreement. "Such a union provides for the existence of a wizard so strong, so powerful, that he could rule the world."  
  
"He bears both my blood, and that of the rotund Gryffindor?"  
  
"Indeed," said Voldemort. "Yet Gryffindor remains deceased, buried far below the mountain under which you, yourself, laid him to rest. You, Master, are very much still here."  
  
Slytherin smiled. "How glorious he would think it that his line has survived so long. How pleased he would be with the endurance of our great families. Riddle, you have pleased me."  
  
Voldemort, who had been shaking with fright, seemed to relax a little, but only a little. "Thank you, Master."  
  
"I am almost," said Slytherin, still running his fingers through Harry's tousled hair, "prepared to forgive the fact that this whole Ceremony has been organised with quite remarkable disregard for the conventions and protocols of the arts magickal. I would go as far as to say that you, Riddle, would be incapable of organising a party in a wine cellar. Yet you have provided for me my true heir, the one wizard remaining who bears our blood ..."  
  
"Master ... I bear your blood ..."  
  
"Oh, do be quiet, Riddle. Whatever would I want with a soul as corrupted as yours? When the raw, living potential for the Darkest, greatest Sorcerer this world has ever known lies on the floor before me ... and you, Riddle, would have killed him. I intended to amalgamate our souls, make us as one ... but now I rather think I should take the boy instead. He will, after all, be so much more easy to control and use as I see fit."  
  
"Master ... I ... it was not the intended use for the boy," spluttered Voldemort. The ground was shaking again, but Slytherin's outline appeared to be becoming stronger.  
  
"What, pray, was the intended use?" snarled Slytherin. He almost looked solid, and less like a badly shot film.  
  
"For my sake, for my continued survival, Master," protested Voldemort. "I must consume the energy present within his body."  
  
"Rubbish," snapped Slytherin. "Use someone else ... Potter is mine."  
  
Voldemort's eyes flitted briefly to Sirius, who scowled, and shook his head. "If either of you takes one step closer," he said.  
  
"You'll what?" asked Slytherin, in a mocking tone of voice. "Threaten us again?"  
  
Sirius snorted. "You are not having Harry," he said, sounding considerably braver than he was actually feeling.  
  
Slytherin was now looking very solid indeed, with just a faint bluish tinge around the edges of his tall, lanky form, like a badly done special effect. He snarled at Sirius. "Your name, I believe, is Black ... Sirius Black, yes?"  
  
Sirius nodded. Harry convulsed briefly, causing Sirius to tighten his grip across the boy's chest. The skin felt cold and clammy against his arms ... he could sense the life force ebbing out of Harry. His eyes were still open, and he was still casting them fearfully around the Tomb.  
  
"You, of all people, should have no qualms about signing over his life to me ... when you signed over the lives of his parents to the servant of Lord Voldemort."  
  
Sirius spat on the floor, he could feel a blinding, cold rage welling up inside his body. "I will do no such thing again," he snarled. "I may have betrayed the trust James and Lily placed in me ... but I would never, ever presume to do it again."  
  
"I think you would," smiled Slytherin. "I think that Azkaban has changed you, Black. I think you are living a lie, and I think you know that that is true. I would be extremely surprised if there was not the smallest vestige of the Dark remaining within your cursed blood."  
  
"You're lying," said Sirius. "There is nothing you can do that will make me change my mind. I would die first, and I know Harry would too. And know that there is no more Dark in my veins than there is Light in yours."  
  
"Unless you give Harry to me," said Slytherin. "He may not live more than a few minutes anyway. See how weak and pale he grows, feel how cold his skin has become. I am offering him life, and you would turn that down?"  
  
Sirius nodded. "I would," he said. "I really would."  
  
Harry let out a low whimper ... could he understand? Was he trying to tell him something? The boy's eyes were still filled with fear, but it was the fear of an animal, not that of a sentient human being.  
  
Slytherin stood up again, and turned to Voldemort, who was still standing over them, leaning on the sarcophagus for support. "Riddle," he said. "Give me the Lazarus Potion."  
  
Voldemort reached into the folds of his robes, a faint smile playing around his cracked, inhuman mouth. Then he faltered.  
  
"Master ... I, do not have it," he said. "I must have left it outside."  
  
**************  
Hermione cradled Draco's fast cooling body to her. His cheeks were flushed bright red, and his eyes, though open, and paralysed with shock and fear, fear of what was happening to him, of death itself, showed no sign of any life. The blood around his open, gaping chest wound was fast drying. In so many ways he still looked alive, and in so many ways, he looked like the corpse he was.  
  
Ron, Fred and George were standing, tactfully, a few feet away. Lucius Malfoy was standing behind them. The silence that had descended across the, now empty Chamber was oppressive ... the rumblings and the earthquakes had now ceased completely, the sun had well and truly risen, and bright shafts of light were piercing the gloom, bathing Hermione and Draco in their warmth. Even the sun, the giver of all life, could not revive the boy.  
  
Malfoy wiped what was unmistakably a tear from his eye. Hermione looked up from Draco as she heard the rustling of material, movement.  
  
She laid Draco down on the floor, and gently closed his eyelids. Then she stood up. "I'm done," she said, in the smallest of voices.  
  
"Now what?" asked Ron. "What happens next?"  
  
Lucius Malfoy stepped forwards. "If you would like to spend a little more time with him," he paused, as if struggling to overcome some massive, internal conflict, "Hermione. I would not object."  
  
"I'm done," repeated Hermione, her voice fading to a whisper.  
  
Malfoy released Omar, who was looking at the other children, evidently very confused indeed, and then knelt on the blood soaked flagstones next to Draco.  
  
"I remember when first Draco was born," he said. "He was a premature baby, you know, both of them were ... he should not have been born for several weeks afterwards, and so weak. I looked at him, the first moment I saw him, and I knew then that I would do anything for him, that I would love him unconditionally."  
  
Hermione did not say anything. Malfoy seemed to be in the mood to speak his mind. "I suppose you know?" he said. "About the ..." his voice trailed off.  
  
Hermione nodded. "I know," she said.  
  
"If you knew," said Malfoy, stroking Draco. "If you only knew how much guilt, how much, how much remorse I feel now. I swear you would see me in a different light. I inflicted this on my boy ... I did not have to, and yet I did. I do not want you to try imagining how that makes me feel."  
  
"I think, maybe I do," said Hermione.  
  
Malfoy shook his head. "No," he said. "Now ... there are things we must do. We must get out of here ... we must leave, now."  
  
"Nobody is leaving without my say so," said someone else. Malfoy looked up. There were two men standing in the doorway ... one of them, wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak, had a thin, gaunt face, pale through lack of sunshine, long, red hair tied back in a ponytail, and there was an earring dangling from one ear. The other, the other was unmistakably Artemis Chaldean.  
  
Chaldean stepped into the Chamber, followed closely by Bill Weasley, who looked pale and drained, and barely registered the excited shouts of his brothers as they ran forwards to embrace him.  
  
"It was touching," Chaldean said. "To hear you express your sorrow at the passing on of your son. It was almost believable. However, I believe I shall forego the Oscar nomination this time, Malfoy."  
  
Malfoy was trying hard not to cry. "How ... how do I make this nightmare end?" he asked. He stood up, crossed the Chamber to where Chaldean and the other man were standing. "For the love of all that is sacred, tell me how to make this stop."  
  
Hermione was now left standing on the dais, over Draco. She watched as Malfoy stood before Chaldean; Bill was holding onto Ron, and Fred and George were standing either side of him, a red haired guard of honour. Malfoy appeared broken. Some spark that had existed inside him before Draco's death appeared to have vanished, he was subdued ... he had called her Hermione, for God's sake!  
  
"There is a way," said Chaldean. "But it will cost you dearly, Malfoy," he spoke as though Malfoy was something nasty and smelly that he had brought in on the bottom of his shoe.  
  
"See my face," hissed Malfoy. "See now that I am a different man, and tell me how I might change the ending."  
  
Chaldean took a step closer to Malfoy, he appeared to be turning his nose up at the other man. "I consider it indicative of your foolishness that you have not thought of it before, Malfoy," he said.  
  
"Tell me? For all our sakes."  
  
"Al Tamimi told me of your Lazarus Potion," said Chaldean. "He told me you had finally succeeded in raising the dead ... by magic. Now is your chance to prove the validity of your experiments."  
  
"We have only tested it on animals so far," said Malfoy. "I ... I do not know if it would work, on humans."  
  
Chaldean shook his head. "What," he hissed, "do you have to lose? What do you have to gain? If your theories are correct, you gain everything; you gain your son, a second chance at life for a boy whose time should not have ended so soon. If you are wrong ... he is dead already, and you have lost nothing."  
  
Malfoy hung his head. "How can you say such a thing to me?" he asked. "How can you be so crass?"  
  
Chaldean appeared to chuckle. "After all you did to me, Malfoy? After fourteen years of what I believed was faithful service, when all the time you were plotting ... plotting with Lord Voldemort, plotting against me, while I truly believed that you were loyal to me. You now expect sympathy from me? It is all I can do not to strike you down where I stand, as I believe I should do. You repel me, Malfoy. You make me feel physically sick."  
  
Malfoy looked down at the ground. "You are right, of course," he said. "You do more than I deserve."  
  
Hermione got to her feet. "Magic cannot bring people back from the dead," she breathed. "I know that it cannot."  
  
Malfoy mounted the steps to the dais, and knelt down beside his son's body. He reached into one of the inside pockets of his robe, and withdrew the tiniest bottle of orange liquid. It looked, thought Hermione, like some kind of cordial.   
  
Malfoy's hands were shaking. He uncorked the bottle, and the potion within emitted a faint, sweet smelling scent. It was, thought Hermione, lovely. It was like the finest perfume she had ever smelt. Heavenly ... it was like ... it was indescribable.  
  
Malfoy held the bottle aloft. Hermione could see the expression playing across his face. "It is the most beautiful thing in the world," he whispered. Hermione could see the Weasleys looking on, and hear Chaldean's laboured, rasping breathing in the background.  
  
He put his hand underneath Draco's head, to support him, and slowly prised the boy's lips apart. Then, breathing deeply, he gently tilted the phial. The orange liquid trickled down Draco's throat. Malfoy flung the bottle aside.  
  
"We shall see now, if it works," said Chaldean, coldly. He stepped closer to the three people, huddled on the dais. Bill followed them, his brothers still clinging onto him, as though they were afraid he might get away.  
  
Malfoy cradled Draco in his arms. The boy was still as lifeless as ever.  
  
"If it was going to work," breathed Chaldean, sounding almost delighted. "It would surely have worked by now."  
  
Malfoy glared at him. "Have heart, man," he stuttered. "Please, I know I have wronged you, but take pity."  
  
Chaldean snorted. "I thought I believed in you," he said, as a single tear trickled down Malfoy's cheek. "I thought I had a faithful friend and ally. I do not even know why I have returned to this place, were it not for the wishes of the man who rescued me," he glanced at Bill at this point, who looked haggard, defeated and old before his years. "I believed you when you said you would instill the values of honour, and obedience within your son. Yet the boy is a coward, and when such a sorry state of affairs comes to pass, it can be only the Father who is to blame."  
  
Malfoy wiped the tear away ... he was still clutching Draco. Ignoring Chaldean completely, he bent his head down, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of Draco's eyes. Hermione could only begin to sense what turmoil was ongoing within the man who now knelt before her, a pathetic wreck of his former self.  
  
"Please, Draco," he said. "Make this work. Make this nightmare stop."  
  
**************  
  
Slytherin was angry. "If the words in this language been coined to describe your sheer incompetence, Riddle, then I would be using them now!" he roared. "You are nothing more than a blundering fool ... how you ever succeeded in attaining anything approaching a measure of power, it ... it is beyond me!"  
  
Voldemort was prostrated on the floor beside him ... Sirius was still half sitting, half crouching on the floor a few feet away from them, still holding desperately onto Harry.  
  
"Master ... I beg of your forgiveness. I implore you not to harm my worthless soul ..."  
  
Slytherin roared in a paroxysm of drunken, impotent rage. He stepped over to where Voldemort was lying, and kicked him hard, in the ribs. However, his spirit state still persisted, and his foot went straight through Voldemort's body. "You mean nothing to me!" he went on. "You mean nothing at all ... I would sooner sacrifice you than anybody who dares to challenge my power. There is nothing more infuriating than a minion who proves incapable of performing the simplest tasks. Must I be forever doomed to suffer fools?"  
  
"Perhaps this means your grand scheme is not to be," said Sirius. Slytherin wheeled round on his heels to look at them.  
  
"It is to be," growled Slytherin, through teeth that, had he had any, would have been gritted with fury. "The prophecies must be fulfilled. They are present within Harry's mind, and when our minds are co-joined, the secrets of the future will be known by me, as well."  
  
"Impossible," snapped Sirius.  
  
Slytherin shook his head. "I assure you it is not," he said. "The information, the prophecies, have been passed down through the generations beneath me, always going through the first born child. Harry is the first born child of his generation, and therefore the prophecies lie within his mind. Were he to live to have children of his own, the prophecies would be transferred into the mind of the first born of the subsequent generation."  
  
"But, Master," began Voldemort. "The prophecies dictate ... they cannot be changed ... it is I who joins with you, having taken Harry's mind with me. It states quite clearly ..."  
  
"The fact that they are prophecies does not mean they have to be obeyed to the letter," said Slytherin. "I wrote them down so many years ago, during the last millennia, that I was vague in my predictions. How could I have known about the wonders of the age, the automobile, electricity, men on the Moon, when the wonder of my age was the sword and housewives hankered after boiled turnips instead of electric bread makers? The predictions were made, as though I was peering into a house through a fogged up window, and attempting to describe the room I saw. I saw only tiny pieces of the whole. The fact that they have come true is, testament, if you will, to my sheer brilliance. The prophecies are open to interpretation, especially by me."  
  
"But Master," Voldemort protested, Sirius could tell his appeal to Slytherin's better nature was hopeless. Slytherin had no better nature.  
  
"Now will you surrender Harry to me, Black?" asked Slytherin.  
  
Voldemort was choking with rage.  
  
"I will not," repeated Sirius. "I will not surrender him to anybody."  
  
Quite right, said a voice within his head. Sirius gave a start. He knew, somehow, that he had not thought that. The thought had sprung, fully formed, into his mind.  
  
What?  
  
Quite right, the voice repeated itself. Slytherin was looking on with the beginnings of a smile creeping around the corners of his mouth.  
  
I must say, the voice went on, when I left you in charge, Padfoot, I did rather expect better things ... as it is, my son appears to be a vegetable.  
  
Sirius looked up ... Slytherin was standing stock still in front of him, not batting an eyelid. He turned to Voldemort, who was still prostrated on the marble floor, his body frozen and motionless. Then it dawned on him ... the body clutched against him was cooling fast, the pitiful moans had died away, his chest lay still, neither rising nor falling ... and when he put his fingers to the boy's neck, he felt nothing whatsoever ...  
  
Harry was dead.  
  
**************  
  
One eye flickered open, and Malfoy could not help but gasp. Hermione leant in closer, the Weasleys and Chaldean closed in around them.  
  
Draco gave a short lurch, and coughed, violently. Blood was once again oozing from the gaping wound in his chest.  
  
"We should put a tourniquet on, or something," said Hermione.   
  
Draco's teeth were chattering, and he was looking fearfully around the room. It looked like he was trying to say something.  
  
"Bill ... give us your cloak," said Hermione.  
  
"Right, okay," said Bill, taking off the cloak, and handing it to her ... he was dressed in Muggle clothes underneath, jeans, trainers and a T-shirt, though ripped and dirty. Hermione gathered up the material, and succeeded in ripping a small strip off one side of it. This she bound tightly around Draco's chest.  
  
"It should stop the bleeding, a bit," she said. "But we really do need to get him to a hospital. Where's the nearest one?" she looked up at Malfoy. Draco was touching the makeshift bandage uncertainly.  
  
"There is a small facility in the Castle itself," began Malfoy. "Yet I would imagine it is deserted."  
  
"No others?" asked Hermione.  
  
Malfoy shook his head.  
  
"He'll live a while," said Hermione, wiping sweat from Draco's forehead, he looked very fearful, and a lot younger than he had done before. "We have to get him back to England, very soon."  
  
"I might be able to help out there," croaked Draco. "Do you think I might have a drink of some kind?"  
  
Chaldean sighed. "We are wasting time ... I say abandon the boy to his fate ... there is a helicopter outside ... we can be in Baku within two hours."  
  
"Bellerophon," stuttered Draco. "We can use Bellerophon."  
  
"The dragon ... the boy's dragon," said Malfoy. "Of course ... if I had only thought beforehand. Draco, are you fit enough to fly?"  
  
"Like she said," said Draco. "I'll live a while," he tried to sit up, and then collapsed onto Hermione's lap. "But not much longer ... I feel rather weak, incidentally, and I am still waiting for my drink."  
  
"Don't complicate matters, Draco," scolded Malfoy.  
  
"It's my birthday," huffed Draco. He gazed up into Hermione's eyes. "What did you use ... CPR?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Um, no, actually," she said.  
  
"Damn," said Draco. "I was rather hoping ..."  
  
"You hoped wrong," said Hermione, still a little flummoxed as to exactly how magic had succeeded in bringing Draco back.  
  
"Where is this dragon?" asked Bill. "We should get to it as soon as possible ... I think I can smell gas."  
  
"Sulphur," said Malfoy. "This Castle is built upon the plug of an ancient volcano. I smell it too ... it might be well to evacuate as soon as possible."  
  
Hermione grabbed Draco, and held him very close, very tightly. She could hear him breathing, feel his living form against her, and she felt tears of happiness rolling down her face.  
  
"Hermione," cut in Malfoy. "We must go, now! Even then, there may not be enough time."  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth pulled the car over to the side of the road. She had reached the summit of one of the many winding, twisting gravel roads that littered that region of the world, and the sight that lay, spread out before her in the morning sunlight, took her breath away.  
  
There was a castle ... surely the most massive castle she had ever set eyes upon ... it had more towers even than Hogwarts, which was itself very well endowed, and seemed to be built atop an outcrop of rock, itself many hundreds of feet high. There was a thin bridge connecting it to the 'mainland.'  
  
It was spectacular.  
  
She opened the door, and climbed out, taking care to bring her omnioculars with her. She raised them to her eyes, and focused them upon the distant bulk of the castle. She noted, with a frisson of alarm coursing through her bloodstream, that there appeared to be an inordinate amount of activity going on ... indeed, people and cars were streaming across the narrow bridge. As she watched, the ground shook again, and she clutched at the roof of her car for support. Earthquake? Or was it something else. She steadied herself again. Thick, black smoke appeared to be pouring out of the castle. Or was it smoke? For now, borne upon the faint breeze wafting towards her, came that unmistakable smell, it was like rotten eggs. She clocked it immediately. Sulphur.  
  
That wasn't smoke ... that was ash.  
  
**************  
  
The trembling of the earth was even stronger, even more pronounced within the walls of the castle. Stumbling as he went, at the heart of a pack of fleeing Death Eaters, Vladimir Koschenko put his head down, and ran. It was all he could do not to trip and fall, and then he knew he would be trampled by the running feet. He could hear someone screaming in the distance, and the air was thick with choking, blinding smoke. He tripped again, felt his footing going, and then crashed headlong to the hard, stone floor. Someone trod on him, knocking the breath from his lungs. He yelled for help, but such was the velocity of the stampede that none was forthcoming.  
  
Then he felt a hand reaching down to him ... what appeared to be a solid silver hand. Koschenko looked up ... his nose cracked and broken, his face bloodied from where it had been trampled into the floor. His rescuer was a short, squat man, wearing brown robes, balding slightly, with a constantly twitching nose.  
  
"There isn't much time," said his rescuer. Koschenko took the man's hand ... and with a strength unapparent to look at him, he found himself hauled to his feet as easily as if he had been a child.  
  
"Thank you ... thank you," was all Koschenko could say.  
  
"We must make haste," said his rescuer. "We must be gone from this place. My Master will be displeased with me as it is."  
  
There was a further earth tremor, and stones rained down upon them from the ceiling ... Koschenko, who of course, knew the castle well, could tell that they were in the passageway leading to the entrance hall.  
  
The man lead him swiftly along the passage ... the running crowd having dispersed as quickly as they had come. Then came the sound of a fearsome explosion, and very close as well. The man leading Koschenko stumbled, and collapsed to the ground ... Koschenko heard a horrible, sickening scream of pain. Instantly he was at the man's side.  
  
"Leave me," he breathed. "I'll have to do the best I can."  
  
If this had been a film, Koschenko would have been shaking his head, vowing to stay with the other man until the bitter end, to try desperately and extricate themselves both from the situation. However, they were not in a movie, and Koschenko, despite his dubious 'skills' with items as far ranging as the thumbscrew, the iron maiden and the Spaniard's rack, was actually a terrific coward ... so with a casual glance backwards, he continued on his way.  
  
Pettigrew lay on the floor, clutching at his now sprained leg, moaning pitifully to himself. The ground shuddered again, and somewhere in the distance he heard a rumbling, crashing sound as the ceiling caved in and tonnes of rock fell, blocking the passage.  
  
**************  
  
Delia Branford, woken from a peaceful sleep by the shuddering of the castle, quaking upon its foundations, wrapped a silk dressing gown around her, and padded over to the window. Simon had woken her early ... getting ready for his silly ceremony. Delia didn't know much about ceremonies, her forte being cranberry sauce, and had merely assumed it would involve funny handshakes and apron twirling, and had barely managed to get back to sleep when the explosions had started.  
  
She parted the curtains, and looked down, they had been housed in one of the many turrets overlooking the central courtyard, and down below, she could see the panicking Death Eaters as they stampeded for the castle's only exit, the narrow, crumbling bridge. She hoped Simon wasn't down there.  
  
**************  
  
Thankfully, one of the Land Rovers was unlocked. The three girls scrambled in. Cassandra slammed shut the driver's door, and locked it. Someone was trying to get into the boot.  
  
"Are you sure you know how to drive this thing?" asked Susan, who was sitting in the passenger seat.  
  
Cassandra shrugged. "It's built by Muggles ... how hard can it be?" she tapped the dashboard with her wand, but nothing happened. "Um," she said. It was very early in the morning ... and the headache did seem to be getting worse.  
  
"Try behind the visor," suggested Elizabeth, who was sitting on the back bench seat. Cassandra reached up, and knocked open the sun visor ... true to cliché, the last person to drive the car had left the ignition keys there.  
  
"Ha ... told you it'd be easy," she said. The other girls exchanged withering looks. Somewhere in the distance a volley of explosions went off, and the ground shook once more. Two more cars, one of them a Jeep with a large gun mounted on the back, were cutting their way through the crowds, horns blaring. All around was the crush of people, slamming their fleeing forms into the side of the car as they sat there. It was very claustrophobic indeed.  
  
More explosions, and masonry, broken bits of stonework and statuary came raining down into the courtyard. Cassandra fumbled with the keys, and the engine roared into life. She put her foot down ... realised she'd forgotten to take off the handbrake, and promptly stalled the car.  
  
"Damn stick shifts!"  
  
She flung the car into gear, and then, depressing the horn as far as it would go, began to inch forwards through the tightly packed crowd.  
  
**************  
  
Sirius put his fingers to Harry's throat ... there was no pulse whatsoever. Suddenly horrified beyond compare, Sirius released the now lifeless form of the boy, and he dropped to the floor, his head lolling floppily to one side, his eyes still open.  
  
"No," breathed Sirius. He looked up at Slytherin, who was still standing, stock still before him. "No ... God, Harry ... please ..."  
  
Look around you, Sirius. That voice, again, within his head, just as it had been before.  
  
It dawned on Sirius that he could not hear a sound ... not a single thing, not even that strange, hissing noise; the sound of silence. It was as if all life had stopped.  
  
"This is some kind of time, stopping, type thing, yeah?" asked Sirius. He stood up, noting as he did so that his feet made no sound on the floor, and his robes did not rustle at all.  
  
"You could say that," said the voice. This time, however, it was coming from somewhere else, and not within his head. Sirius turned round ... there were people standing in the Tomb ... six of them, five men and a woman.  
  
"Sirius, Sirius, Sirius," one of the men said, he stepped out from behind one of the others ... a tall, bearded man with an extravagant, curly bouffant of jet black hair perched atop his head, carrying a club, and wearing fearsome armour, and a helmet with wings on.  
  
"You have rather fouled up, haven't you," said the man who had spoken first. The others were all nodding their heads. Sirius stared at the first man with something approaching recognition. He was looking into the eyes of a man whom he had not seen for fourteen years, the eyes of a dead man.  
  
"I rather expected you to take care of Harry," said James Potter. "You are proving somewhat of a disappointment."  
  
Sirius' face cracked into the broadest grin of his life ... he stepped forwards, and embraced the man, fully expecting to go right through him. The fact that James was solid came as something of a shock to him.  
  
"Weren't expecting that, were you?" laughed James. He removed his glasses, and wiped them clean. "So, Sirius," he went on. "What's with the bizarre movie set?"  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"My son is lying half naked on the floor, you're in a fine state, and Voldemort appears to be giving Slytherin fifty. Would you care to explain yourself?"  
  
"Um ... well, it's rather difficult," said Sirius.  
  
"I see," said James. "Excuse me a minute," he walked over to where Voldemort's frozen form was lying, and kicked him hard. "I'll sort you out later," he said.  
  
Some of the other men were also stepping forwards ... the tall, bearded one, whom Sirius was sure he recalled seeing somewhere before, possibly in a portrait, another one, who appeared to be wearing the uniform of a Civil War Cavalier, another, clad in a red military jacket, and yet another, who appeared to be wearing what looked like a Muggle flight suit.  
  
"Well ... meet the ancestors, why don't you?" said James. "We got together, a small bunch of us. Thought we ought to come down and sort you folks out. Believe me, Sirius, it's been hard work getting all this ready ... establishing the links, dashing backwards and forwards across the Spirit Level."  
  
"The Spirit Level?" choked Sirius  
  
James nodded. "Regrettably, that's what it's called," he said. "Probably someone's idea of a joke. So ... we ... um, have the ancestors we thought would best serve our purposes, the bravest and the best."  
  
The man holding the club grinned inanely. Sirius still couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen him, somewhere before.  
  
James crouched down on the floor next to Sirius and Harry, and bade Lily do the same. She followed him over, and knelt down beside them.  
  
"May I, Sirius?" she asked, her voice as soft and calm as it had been the very last time he had spoken to her ... she did not appear to have changed a bit.  
  
Sirius nodded, looking down at Harry, who was lying on the marble flagstones. His parents bent over the body. James was muttering the words of some ancient incantation. Lily looked up at Sirius. "It will help," she said.  
  
"He's not dead, then?" asked Sirius, hardly daring to hope.  
  
"Of course not," said James. "We just need to speed him up a little ... put him back in our timeframe," he waved his hands over Harry's immobile form. "And of course, we need to do something about that broken arm. He also needs a bit of a boost ... Voldemort practically leached the life right out of him."  
  
"Never in all my death did I dream I'd ever see him again," Lily was practically sobbing. "In the flesh."  
  
Harry's body jerked convulsively. He rubbed his eyes, and then sat up. Gone was the vacant expression in his face ... his eyes were once again full of their customary life. He stared at his parents with a look of complete, dumbfounded astonishment.  
  
**************  
  
Gwyneth flashed her headlights at the other car. The driver, who looked about seventeen or eighteen, and had red hair, waved her out of the way.  
  
"Move yourself, you silly cow," snarled Gwyneth, gesticulating expansively. The other driver did the same. "I need to get past!"  
  
They were on a mountain road about two miles from the point where Gwyneth had finally laid eyes on the castle, which was currently hidden behind a small hill, though the pall of smoke and ash hanging over the blazing structure gave away its location instantly.  
  
The other driver was getting out of the car. "Oh, Christ," Gwyneth said to herself. "I do not need road rage now. Not in the middle of bloody Azerbaijan."  
  
The driver was walking over to them. Gwyneth wound down her window. "Move out of the way!" she hollered, sticking her head out. "It is vital I get down there straight away!"  
  
"You move!" the girl yelled, an American accent. "Your damn car is blocking the road!"  
  
"So is yours!"  
  
The girl scowled at her. "Just get out of the way ... you ... damn ... English person!"  
  
Gwyneth's blood boiled. "You've never actually been to England, have you?" she asked, sounding as Welsh as she possibly could. The girl shook her head.  
  
"Then you probably won't know," said Gwyneth. "So I'll try not to dismember you too much. Never ... ever, call a Welsh person English again, if you value a set of fully functioning kidneys. If you do, we will tear you limb from limb and feed you to our sheep, and then we will take the little bits left over, and use you as fertiliser for our leeks and daffodils. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"  
  
The girl was backing away. "Okay," she said. "That's ... real ... nice. We'll just, um, move the car then ... okay?"  
  
"What a corking idea!" agreed Gwyneth.  
  
**************  
  
Harry inhaled every breath he could of his Mother's scent as they crouched on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around each other, Harry's head pressed tight against her shoulder. He could feel tears pouring down his face, her light touch stroking his hair, whispering in his ear.  
  
"I missed you so much, Harry."  
  
"Me too," Harry was breathing ... he could feel his Father's hands, cold against his back, and hear Sirius' breathing in the background. He could not see where Voldemort had gone, and frankly, he did not care. His whole body felt numb with disbelief ... it was as though he was not entirely there, as though he was floating above the ground.  
  
"How's it been?" she asked him.  
  
"Pants," said Harry, with feeling.  
  
"Sirius not been looking after you?" asked his Mother, in a calming, soothing tone of voice that Harry could remember nobody ever having taken with him before.  
  
Now Sirius spoke. "Um ... actually," he said. "It all went a little bit wrong. I ... um ... kind of messed up."  
  
"In what way?" his Father's voice.  
  
"They ... kind of took Harry away from me," said Sirius ... and he proceeded to tell them the whole tale ... right up from his arrival at the house, mere moments after the attack ... he told of how he had found Hagrid sitting on the charred remains of the fireplace, clutching Harry tightly ... and how Hagrid had told him of Dumbledore's wishes ... that Harry must go to live with the Dursleys. His Father had choked at this point, and when Sirius came to the part about the thirteen year sentence in Azkaban ... Harry felt his Mother squeeze him even more tightly.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. We missed everything."  
  
"You don't have to miss the rest?" Harry asked, hardly daring to hope.  
  
"We do, Harry," said his Father. "You have the power to call us back," he spread his arms wide. "Well ... as you can see you have done ... with a little help from the powers that be, of course. Ah, the thing is, we can't, well, you know, stay ... long."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Harry ... we don't know ... we know very little of you ... we knew nothing of Sirius' imprisonment, or that you had been forced to go and live with that, oaf of a relative. It is like ... I cannot describe it ..."  
  
Sirius could ... he could remember Slytherin's words. "It is like," he said. "Peering into a room through a fogged up window, and trying to describe the contents without being able to see all of them."  
  
James smiled. "I don't think I could have put it more succinctly myself," he said. "Bloody good analogy, Padfoot. Anyway ... we know very little of you, and your life. But we do know what we have been told. The Spirit Level is a place outside of time and space, where the laws of this Earth, this world, simply do not apply. What we do know is that you do not die ... neither does Draco, nor Ron, nor Hermione, nor Sirius ... none of you die, not today, and not tomorrow. None of you die for a very long time indeed. Our ..." he faltered briefly. "Our job. Harry, is to see that this becomes so. We have leave to guide you away from this place, but then we must leave you once more. Our writ extends no further than this castle, nor do we have earthly form beyond these walls. We can help you so far."  
  
"Then how do we escape?" asked Sirius.  
  
James smiled. "Well, technically, we could escape in this timeframe ... however, I do not think it appropriate to do so, and I would be in grave trouble if I attempted such a thing. We do need to speed things up ... fortunately, we have some help at hand."  
  
He gestured to the four other men standing over by the portal, still closed tight shut. There appeared to be no other way out of the Tomb save upwards, through the collapsed ceiling. Harry could not fathom how they would try that one.  
  
"Step forward," said his Father.  
  
The bearded man, the one who looked like a Viking, was the first to step forwards. His voice, when he spoke, was loud and booming, and echoed around the Tomb with a force that could have woken the dead. Harry noticed that engraved on his shining, brass breastplate was the image of a griffin, rampant. It could only be one man ...  
  
"The first ... the oldest, and probably the wisest, though some would contest that," said James. "The Father of our line ... Gryffindor himself."  
  
Gryffindor bowed to Harry. "A true honour, young man," he said. "That I now stand before you."  
  
Harry couldn't have been more shocked if Ron had just announced he and Draco were running off to Hawaii to open a gay bar.  
  
"This," his Father went on, gesturing to one of the other men, "is Temperance Malfoy ... not one of ours, of course, but nearly."  
  
The man in the Cavalier uniform removed his hat, which had a floppy purple feather stuck in it, and bowed his head slightly to the people sitting on the floor.  
  
"Herbert Potter."  
  
The man in the red coat smiled. "A veteran of the War of Independence," explained James. "Killed in 1778, I believe? A sniper in the woods near Philadelphia?"  
  
The man nodded. "Shouldn't have been wearing a red coat then," muttered James, under his breath. "Silly sod."  
  
The man nodded. Harry noticed that the man in the Muggle flight suit was looking at Herbert with a look of disgust on his face.  
  
James smiled. "Ah, yes," he said. "Our American contingent. Norman Potter, shot down in 1944 over France ... killed in the impact."  
  
Harry was looking at them with a look of puzzlement on his face. "How come ..." he began. "How come ..."  
  
James smiled. "Your family, Harry, has always valued loyalty, the old values of truth and valour and friendship that have stood the test of time, above all else. Potters would always be ready to defend their families and their homelands ... not only in our world, the magical one, but in the Muggle world, around us. We fight whatever threatens our families. Even if that means fighting Muggle wars."  
  
Harry smiled. "Your own Grandfather was very much involved in the War, Harry, and he did a lot of good things. He was a hero ... just like you. Your Great-Uncle drove a Muggle ambulance for several years, with certain alterations to his vehicle to ensure he was always first on the scene of an accident. Our people have made more of a contribution to history than you would care to imagine."  
  
Slowly, his Mother removed the light cloak she was wearing, and draped it around Harry's bare shoulders. Immediately, Harry felt a surge of warmth coursing through his system. It was as though the cloak was some sort of central heating unit, breathing new life into his tired, defeated body.  
  
"Come, Harry," said his Father. "We have much to accomplish before the day is out."  
  
**************  
  
With Draco walking ahead of them, stumbling slightly, for he was very weak indeed, they scrambled down the passage that Malfoy had led Tatiana and Draco along the previous day, the Weasley brothers, Hermione and Chaldean still stumbling along in their wake, tripping on the uneven floor. Down here, in the depths below the castle, the rumbling was louder, the shaking perceptibly more violent, and the nauseating smell of sulphur even more overpowering.  
  
"We do not want to be down here," Draco heard Bill repeating to himself. "There is no way on Earth we want to be down here."  
  
"Why not?" Hermione asked, turning to look at him.  
  
"I thought you knew stuff, Hermione," said Bill. "See the shape of this passage?"  
  
"Not really," said Hermione. Ron, on the other hand, was looking up at the walls and rocky ceiling with renewed interest.  
  
"Shaped like a teardrop," said Ron.  
  
Bill nodded. "Exactly," he said. "It is a magma vent. Sometimes, when a volcano is erupting, the surrounding rock cools, leaving liquid magma flowing along within it, as has happened here. The passages created are eventually drained ... but there is nothing to say the magma will not come back some day."  
  
"We really do not want to be down here, then," said George, his normally flushed and freckled face visibly pale in the dim light.  
  
"Hell, no," said Fred.  
  
As if in answer to their hushed conversation, the ground lurched again, and everybody stumbled, falling against one of the walls, except for Draco, who was swaying so much he hardly noticed it.  
  
"It's hot to the touch," exclaimed Ron. "It's like putting your hand on a radiator."  
  
"We don't have long then," said Chaldean. "Malfoy, where are these blasted dragons of yours?"  
  
"Close by," said Malfoy. "We must take the very next fork in the passage, and head round to the right."  
  
"The left," Draco croaked.  
  
"I flatter myself that I know the way around my own castle, Draco," said his Father.  
  
"Exactly," said Draco. "Then we go left. Ignore him, boys."  
  
The others looked to each other. The fork was just ahead ... one passage, leading right, went steeply upwards in a flight of steep steps carved out of the rock. The other passage descended, albeit gradually. Then they looked from Lucius to Draco, and back again ... and then they went left.  
  
"Left's good too," said Malfoy, as he watched their receding backs, before scrambling off in pursuit.  
  
**************  
  
"Over by the door," said James, gesturing to them. Sirius and Lily hauled Harry to his feet, and half walked, half carried him over to the door. James bent down next to Voldemort.  
  
"Can you kill him, Dad?" asked Harry, that single word giving him a thrill the like of which he had never experienced before.  
  
"Sadly, not," said James. "However, he can't kill me either ... only you and Sirius are at risk. Godric, I'd like you to stand in front of them."  
  
Gryffindor said something in Middle English that none of them understood, brandished his club, and moved in front of the other three, ruffling Harry's hair as he did so.  
  
"How are we going to do this?" asked James.  
  
Temperance Malfoy now spoke up. "We could try, um, opening the portal now, pulling the lever ... that alone may buy us a few seconds time when we return to our original timeframe."  
  
"Find the lever, then," said James, who was still kneeling at Voldemort's side. "I need to figure out how to keep big ears here occupied."  
  
"We have barely a minute remaining in this timeframe," Temperance warned. "Fifty seconds left ... that'll be forty nine seconds any second now."  
  
"Tie him up!" yelled Harry, inspiration hitting him like an express train.  
  
James stood up, grinning from ear to ear ... Harry was struck by how very much alike they looked ... they even had the identical mole on their left cheeks. He muttered a spell, and ropes flew from the tip of his wand, and enveloped Voldemort's prone body, rendering him immobile.  
  
Temperance let out a cry. "I've found a lever!" he said, yanking on it with all his might.  
  
"Five seconds!"  
  
"Four ... three ... two ... one!"  
  
It was as though life had flooded back into the Tomb, thought Harry ... and as he recalled it later, the faint sounds of rumbling, of the angry earth far beneath them slowly began to reverberate around the castle. It was literally as if everything had speeded up.  
  
Voldemort and Slytherin certainly had. Voldemort roared with rage as he felt his arms bound tightly to his back.  
  
"What is this trickery ... unhand me, you knaves!"  
  
Slytherin, however, was ignoring him. His upper lip curled into a sneer, he took slow, faltering steps towards the group. Harry pressed closer against the portal, the stone cool against his back. He could hear the same grinding of machinery that had heralded the opening of the door before.  
  
"What is this then?" asked Slytherin, sounding, thought Harry, remarkably like Draco when he went into sneering mode. "A little reunion ... a little tete a tete? Godric ... how simply spiffing to see you!"  
  
"You bastard," said Gryffindor ... stepping forwards ... the other ancestors trying to restrain him, but he threw them off easily. "We agreed, when we signed the contracts ... everlasting, binding, magical contracts," Harry had never thought of Gryffindor as having a West Country accent before, though he supposed it made sense, "we agreed, Slytherin, and you ... you would throw this all away."  
  
"I signed no contract," said Slytherin. "I signed a scrappy piece of paper, under duress, as well."  
  
"We agreed," Gryffindor went on. "There would be no meddling, nothing like this ... the Heirs."  
  
"He is my Heir," said Slytherin. "I do as I wish."  
  
"Rubbish!" snapped Gryffindor. "You would try and change fate? Slytherin ... do you remember what happened last time you did that?"  
  
Slytherin nodded. "Yes ... I believe I do, England was conquered, by the Normans ... history set back on its proper course, Gryffindor, otherwise, a dynasty of Saxon Kings ... people like you? Warlike ... chivalrous, big of beard and round of club? Ridiculous concept! Far better to have the French in charge, then the Germans ... heaven forbid the English should ever get around to ruling themselves."  
  
Gryffindor snarled. "Nevertheless," he said. "Fiddling with time, like you have done, Slytherin ... there must be no meddling with the Heirs."  
  
"Rubbish," snapped Slytherin. "Tish, tosh, and old wet fish, Gryffindor. For history to be set upon its proper cause, Harry must make the mind link with me, and the prophecies must be transferred."  
  
The door was sliding slowly upwards into the ceiling. There was space underneath sufficient for a small child to crawl through, but not yet for them.  
  
"For history to be set upon the course you have deemed," said Gryffindor, "which is not, might I add, the correct course, by any stretch of the imagination. Harry will live, and we will ensure that he does."  
  
"Is anybody going to help me?" Voldemort squealed.  
  
"Oh, do shut up," snapped Slytherin. "The Dark Lords of today, no imagination, no style, no flair ... in out, quick as a flash, Dark Mark, job done. I remember when I torched my first Muggle village, we indulged in a spot of rape and torture as well ... you should have seen those peasants run, Riddle!"  
  
"Quiet!" bellowed Gryffindor. "You always were the embodiment of earthly evil, weren't you, Slytherin?"  
  
"Exactly," said Slytherin. "I was the very worst. I cannot be matched, Riddle."  
  
The door was open nearly enough for the others to duck through now ... it dawned on Harry what Gryffindor was trying to do ... he was distracting Slytherin.  
  
"Go ... now," his Father hissed. Harry did not need telling twice. He ducked underneath the door, which was rising, agonizingly slowly, heard rushing footsteps behind him, Sirius and his parents, and then the other Potters were scrambling through.  
  
The Animation Chamber looked different when it was empty. Gone was the oppressive atmosphere of before, gone was the darkness ... the bowed heads of the Death Eaters. Sunlight was pouring in through the high windows. Even so the room still held to it a strange, spooky quality. Sirius and Lily held tight to Harry.  
  
"Creepy," Lily said. Sirius was looking at the pool of blood on the dais. There was a trail leading away from it, heading down a passageway that neither he nor Harry had noticed before.  
  
"Follow it," said Harry.  
  
**************  
A low, soft moaning, almost inhuman, almost like the death throes of a wounded animal. It caused Hermione to stop dead in her tracks.  
  
"Did anybody else hear that?" asked Draco.  
  
"Hold it a minute," said Hermione. Just ahead, the passage bent round to the right ... for some moments now, they had been descending steadily, and with their descent came a sharp rise in temperature. It was now like an oven. The moaning sound was louder now.  
  
"I think someone is hurt," said Malfoy, pushing his way to the front of the group. Fred and George rolled their eyes, Ron said nothing.  
  
His hand outstretched to keep the children from seeing anything too distressing, Malfoy stepped forwards, and peered slowly around the bend in the passage. Then he beckoned the others to follow him. Chaldean pushed his way to the front, and stayed close behind Malfoy ...  
  
There was a man lying on the ground ... his leg bent backwards so far it looked unreal ... obviously, thought Hermione broken, and very badly. He appeared to be conscious, but only just.  
  
Malfoy knelt down next to him. "Can you hear me?" he asked, in a soft tone of voice that Hermione could not remember hearing from him before, and that Draco was absolutely certain had never been taken with him in his life.  
  
The man nodded.  
  
"We must get out of here very fast," Malfoy continued. "I doubt very much you can walk."  
  
The man shook his head, and in that instant, Hermione recognised him ... slightly chubby around the cheeks, carrying a head that was fast going bald ... a nose that seemed to twitch. Who else could it be but Wormtail?  
  
"I can't walk," Pettigrew groaned. "Don't think I have not tried. I must return to ... to my Master."  
  
"Your Master would desert you, Wormtail," Malfoy hissed. "He has no use for you, or for me, or for any of us ... now ... will you come with us?"  
  
Wormtail spat on the ground at Malfoy's feet. "I would sooner die," he snarled.  
  
"Which," Malfoy went on, "is precisely what you'll end up doing. Very shortly, this entire establishment is going to go sky high."  
  
"Then," said Wormtail, "I shall go sky high with it ... if that is my destiny."  
  
Malfoy looked as if he was about to say something, but Hermione leapt into the breach before he got the correct words properly in order. "Destiny is nothing more than a cute myth designed to trap people into doing things they don't want to do, and to sell more films, of course," she added. "It's what you make of it ... you make what you will of your life ... though it harm none..."  
  
"Muggle ideas are all very well," groaned Wormtail. "But they do not wash in this world. There is a place, a place and a time for ... for," he winced in pain, "... for everything. All is ordered ... I serve my Master that he might capitalise on this ... on this inherent need for order."  
  
"Sock him over the head," cut in Ron.  
  
Chaldean glared at the boy. "The Muggle girl is right," he said. "You're coming with us."  
  
**************  
  
They half ran, half walked down the passageway. Harry leading the others, the hard, sharp rocks cutting the soles of his feet. But all that mattered was to be as far from Voldemort as possible, and every step was taking them further and further. That had to be a good thing. He could hear dripping ... water, condensation was forming on the walls, and the heat was unbearable. The smell of eggs, of sulphur, was getting stronger here, much stronger. There was not much time remaining.  
  
**************  
  
Malfoy stumbled along the passageway, leading Pettigrew by the hand. The entire fabric of their existence seemed to be fraying around the edges ... the ground kept shifting, and the noxious smoke that was filling their small, claustrophobic world blinded them. He could see the retreating forms of the others running along the passage, the sounds of their feet pounding on the stone seemed ever more distant.  
  
"Keep running!" he gasped, clasping tightly to Pettigrew's hand, as the ground shook again, and both men were flung momentarily to the floor, Pettigrew landing atop Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy scrambled out from underneath the other man, clutching his black Death Eater's robes tightly around his body. Now the passageway seemed to be glowing with a strange, incandescent orange light. And Malfoy knew instantly what it must be, and he knew instantly that Bill Weasley had been right. The orange glow was magma, and they were in a magma vent. His knowledge of elementary geology was sketchy at best, but he knew he did not want to be near magma.  
  
"Come on, man!" he bellowed above the noise, reaching out to Pettigrew, who looked up at him with malice in his eyes.  
  
"Leave me to die!" he roared back.  
  
Malfoy shook his head. "There will be no more deaths here today!" he said.  
  
The whole earth gave a sudden, sideways lurch, and before Malfoy had fully realised what was going on ... rocks were tumbling down from the ceiling. Chaldean, standing underneath them, turned in horror, his mouth wide open as the block struck him on the top of the head, and he tumbled to the floor. More rocks, loose chunks of earth, dislodged by the earthquakes were falling, crushing Chaldean's lifeless body, blocking the passage, the roar mingled with the screams of the others as they turned, realising what was going on behind them.   
  
Malfoy stumbled over to the rock fall. He could hear frantic voices on the other side.  
  
"We have to go on!" one of them, that sounded like Hermione was saying.  
  
"We have to move the rocks!" another voice cried. This one sounded a bit like Draco.  
  
Malfoy clasped at the rocks. There was the smallest gap between two of the boulders, and he fell down on his knees to peer through it. All was darkness on the other side.  
  
"Father ... can you hear me?"  
  
Malfoy nodded, then, realising that of course nobody could see him, spoke. "You must go on, Draco ... I will find another way ..."  
  
"Father?" Draco's voice sounded tearful, and in earlier days, he would have scolded him for that ... but he did not.  
  
"You must keep going. Find Bellerophon ... get out of here ... tell people what has happened."  
  
"No, Father!"  
  
"Draco. Please. I want you to do this for me. I want you to live."  
  
He heard other voices on the other side ... and then Draco spoke again, his voice choking. "I'll see you, then ..."  
  
"Oh, indubitably," Malfoy turned away from the rock fall. Pettigrew was still lying on the ground.  
  
"Will you kill me now?"  
  
"No," said Malfoy. "We will have to get out another way ... across the bridge, if it still stands."  
  
**************  
  
Sirius, Harry and the Spirits stumbled out of the end of the passageway, and found themselves once again in the Hall of the castle, or rather, the rubble that remained of it. The beautiful, tiled floor was no more, smashed into oblivion by the falling stonework. The roof had caved in during the first earth tremor.  
  
Sirius was going to think of something witty to say, but he decided against it. The silence that had descended across the site was something altogether more eerie than anything he had witnessed before. Where there should have been a bustling castle, filled with underlings, servants and minions, there was instead, an empty shell, piles of broken masonry. He wondered how many people had died.  
  
Slowly, and silently, they walked across what had been the Hall, down the steps, and out into the cobbled courtyard, now more of a cobbled space. Sirius picked his way through the rubble. Here and there, under some of the heavier bits of stone were human arms, poking out, fingers grasping for help that never came. They reminded Sirius of something ... something that had stuck in his memory a very long time ... but he said nothing.  
  
The gatehouse was still standing, and so, thankfully, was the bridge. But it looked as though it was going to collapse at any minute.  
  
"We should go now," said Sirius. "Come on, Harry."  
  
But Harry stood stock still. "I'm waiting for the others," he said.  
  
"No, no, no. Don't do this to me!" snapped Sirius. "They might not be coming ... they might," he stopped. "They might already be dead."  
  
James stepped forwards. "They aren't," he said. "Were you listening to a word I said, Padfoot? Nobody dies. Trust me on that."  
  
Sirius sneered. "So how come there are some things you can tell us, and some things you can't?" he said.  
  
James sighed. "Look, Sirius. Much as I would like to discuss the inner workings of the afterlife to you in minute, mind boggling and bloody boring detail, now is not the time or the place."  
  
Sirius looked over his shoulder. A car had turned onto the bridge and was heading towards them.  
  
"I really suggest you get out of here ..."  
  
Sirius was looking at the car. It had stopped halfway across the bridge, and somebody was getting out. It was a woman, and a woman he recognised, too.  
  
"Gwyneth?"  
  
"Oh, sodding hell!" snapped James. "Not on top of everything else!" He was distracted momentarily by Harry pulling on his shirt sleeve.  
  
"Should we ... um, go now?" he asked. "Dad?"  
  
His Father wasn't listening. As Harry spoke, Sirius began to run across the bridge. His feet pounding in the dirt, and as he did so, Harry turned, and saw cracks running across the roadway.  
  
"Come back!" he screamed, surging forwards, only to find his Father's hands around his shoulder, restraining him. With a creaking, grinding sound, the bridge buckled in midway, and as Sirius scrambled to safety in Gwyneth's arms, the midsection fell away, and plummeted down into the gorge below.  
  
They were trapped.  
  
Harry turned, hearing the sounds of running footsteps behind him. It was Lucius Malfoy, dragging along a smaller, stockier man, who's head was hidden in the cowl of his brown cloak. James and Lily turned as well.  
  
"Harry!" gasped Malfoy. "Thank Heaven you're safe!"  
  
"Um," interjected James Potter, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice. "Exactly who are you, please?"  
  
"Malfoy, Lucius," said Malfoy, sticking out his hand. He gestured to Pettigrew, whose head was still hidden by the cloak. "This is an associate of mine. I've not seen you around here before. Are you a minion?"  
  
James smiled. "Well, kind of," he said. "Actually, I'm here as a kind of overseer ..."  
  
"You're a Death Eater?"  
  
James shook his head. "Under no circumstances ... actually, I'm Harry's Father ..."  
  
Malfoy looked up into his eyes, his face suddenly drained of its colour. "A spirit?" he asked.  
  
James nodded. "Don't worry, I can't hurt you ..."  
  
"I wasn't worried," said Malfoy. Pettigrew, on the other hand, was shaking violently.  
  
"What's his problem?"  
  
"Touch of flu," replied Malfoy, hurriedly. "Nothing much to worry about ..."  
  
James gave him a suspicious look. "Fair enough," he said. "Are you the last?"  
  
"There were others," said Malfoy. "They're trying to find another way out. They'll be fine, my son is with them."  
  
James, who had been blocking Malfoy's view of the downed bridge stepped aside, and immediately, what little colour remained in Malfoy's face drained from it.  
  
"No bridge?"  
  
"Damn," said Malfoy, softly.  
  
**************  
  
Something was wrong. Yesterday, when his Father had led him along this route, Draco had been able to hear the low, raspy breathing of the sleeping dragons. Feel the heat of their furnace like bodies, but now he could feel nothing. He sped up his pace, and the others followed.  
  
He stumbled into the Chamber, to be confronted by a scene of absolute devastation. Half the ceiling had fallen in, allowing light into the chamber. The furnace had been extinguished, and the attendants had obviously fled somewhere else. The floor was littered with bits of stonework and masonry, and Draco picked his way carefully amongst the shards, the others following. He reached the top of the staircase, and looked down.  
  
Bellerophon was there ... against all the odds, he was still there, and nobody had unchained him or flown him away or anything! One of the other dragons ... Draco thought that one was called Hermes, but he wasn't sure, was also lying asleep on the floor.  
  
Slowly, he began to walk down the steps towards the sleeping beasts.  
  
"Hey, Malfoy!" called Fred. "This may not seem like the best time to mention this, but you are currently walking down a flight of stairs, towards two bloody vicious looking dragons. Just thought you might like to be aware of this situation ... at this time!"  
  
Draco turned around, and scowled. "Just shut up, okay?" he croaked. "They might be our last chance to get out of here, and you two just want to piss around. Follow me down here."  
  
"Pardon me for living!" called Fred. But he started to walk down the stairs too. The others followed.  
  
"I might not, you want to watch it," said Draco. He had reached the bottom of the stairs, and, pulling on one of the special gloves, which were hanging neatly from a nearby rack, reached out to tickle Bellerophon awake.  
  
Slowly, he ran his fingers across Bellerophon's flanks. As he did so, the dragon growled, low and ominous. And Hermione let out a squeal. "Draco. Stop it!"  
  
Draco spun round instantly, his fingers still touching Bellerophon's dark, scaly skin.  
  
"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus ... you bloody idiot!"  
  
Draco took a step away from Bellerophon. "Um, never do what?" he asked, looking suitably guilty.  
  
"Never tickle a sleeping dragon," said Hermione.  
  
"Well then, if you're so clever, tell me how to wake him up," said Draco, scowling at her.  
  
"You have to sing to him!" came another voice. "Weren't you listening yesterday?"  
  
Draco spun round. Tatiana was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down on him with an expression of the utmost distaste etched on her face. Her hands were on her hips, and she looked angry, angry and scared.  
  
"Can you sing, Hermione?" asked Draco, turning round.  
  
"I'd rather not. I'd feel rather self conscious about it," said Hermione. "Anyway, what would I sing?"  
  
"Anything," said Draco. "Anything will work," he was aware of Tatiana looking at him. He felt like he was under scrutiny, like he was in an exam ... Dragon Care 101.  
  
"You do it," said Hermione.  
  
Draco looked up into her eyes. "Okay," he said, resolve slowly creeping into his blood. They were going to get out of here ... alive. "How about a couple of verses of the Chimney Sweep Song?"  
  
Hermione shook her head.  
  
"The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All?"  
  
"Something happy," said Hermione.  
  
"I don't know any happy songs," said Draco. "Besides, I'm a terrible singer. My voice goes all over the place."  
  
"I thought you used to be a choirboy," said Hermione. Draco flushed a brilliant red.  
  
"How did you know ... I mean ... how did, did you make that up?"  
  
"It's a long standing rumour," said Hermione. "I bet you looked adorable in a ruff."  
  
"Quiet!" bellowed Tatiana. "There is a time and a place for this ... and this is not the time, and in a few minutes, it will cease to be the place as well. Now, somebody sing to the damn dragon!"  
  
"Oh, hell, I'll do it!" snapped Bill, he pushed Fred and George out of the way, and stepped forwards.  
  
"What are you going to favour us with?" asked Fred, mockingly, causing Bill to turn around and glare at him.  
  
"How about this?" asked Tatiana, coming down the stairs towards them. She walked across the shaking floor to where Bellerophon lay, and knelt next to his head. And then she began to sing.  
  
She sung the same song that Draco had heard yesterday ... hauntingly beautiful, alternately high and low, happy and sad, a melody that touched his soul ... that touched all of them.  
  
Bellerophon opened one eye, lazily, and blinked vapidly at them. Then, finally, he spoke. "Is that you, Tatiana?" he asked.  
  
Tatiana nodded. "It is I," she said. "Bellerophon. Your rider needs you ..."  
  
Bellerophon opened his other eye. "There are other humans. Where is Draco?"  
  
"Here," Draco stepped forwards.  
  
"How may I serve you?" growled Bellerophon, banging his club like tail against the floor, cracking the flagstones as he did so.  
  
"We need to get out of here!" said Draco. "You're our only chance ..."  
  
"You want me to change fate?" growled Bellerophon. "Draco. I do not think you are fully aware of the ramifications of what you are doing here."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Draco, looking suitably confused. "Ramifications?"  
  
"The consequences of your actions," sighed Bellerophon, acting as though he had had to tell people this a thousand times before. "Dragons are creatures of fate. To change fate is abhorrent to us. Your fate is to meet your end in this castle. And I must not disobey this. It would lead to dire consequences for us all if I were to do so."  
  
"But there are other people here!" snapped Draco. "Other people, people who don't need to be here, or don't deserve to be here ..."  
  
Bellerophon growled again. "You are not aware of what you are proposing, Draco," he snarled, baring his teeth. Hermione, Ron and the others all took a step backwards. "Never before in my life have I witnessed a human asking a dragon to change fate for him. It simply is not done. If you were not my Rider, rest assured I would already have killed you at this point."  
  
Draco was staring at the dragon, his mouth open. "You have to help us," he repeated, the note of desperation in his voice becoming clearer, more pronounced. "You have to help us. You will die, too! You can't want that!"  
  
"I can't change that," said Bellerophon. "Why, Draco, are you so persistent?"  
  
"Because I don't believe in all that destiny crap!" snapped Draco. "It's ... it's your own choices that matter. You can choose to live, or you can choose to die, and I don't know of one person, one creature alive who would choose death over life. That is the thing that is simply not done. It has nothing to do with that. Everyone here agrees with me. But then everyone here wants to live!"  
  
"The fact that you choose to flout so blatantly the laws and conventions of us dragons makes me, Draco, mildly curious," said Bellerophon.  
  
"You see!" said Draco, spreading his arms wide, and taking a step nearer to Bellerophon. "You know it too. You know you don't really want to die!"  
  
"Nothing wants to die, Draco," said Bellerophon. "However, it is an unavoidable truth of life, that death must follow. It happens in almost all cases."  
  
Hermione now stepped forwards, pushing Draco out of the way. "I'm not taking any more of your crap, dragon!" she yelled. Draco, who had fallen to the floor, waved his hands at her and mouthed for her to stop. But she did not.  
  
"You can bombard us with your stupid, pathetic explanations, your denial of your own life, until you are blue in the face. But none of us are going to back down. We want you to help us ... and ... damn it, Draco's your thingamajig! Rider, whatever the hell you call each other!"  
  
"I should strike you down where you stand!" snarled Bellerophon. "You are a mere human girl. You have no power over me, no power at all. I will not be moved!"  
  
Now Tatiana spoke up. "Bellerophon ... if you would go by that code, then you are no more than a monster. You have intelligence; you have wisdom! Know that you must now make the right choice, and save lives, and be remembered as a hero, rather than as a villain!"  
  
"What human would ever think of a dragon as a hero?" asked Bellerophon. "For centuries our kind has been victim to your vicious, warlike ways. You sent slayers into our lands, armed with nets and spears, and they killed us! Dragons are already vilified by your kind, Tatiana. This changes nothing!"  
  
"Please!" gasped Draco, who was still lying on the floor. "I'll die soon anyway. Just ... get us out of here!"  
  
Bellerophon stood up, slipped his foot out of the unlocked manacle, and looked down on the boy, lying on the floor. His yellow eyes were unblinking, as he surveyed Draco. And then he bent his head down, and nuzzled him.  
  
"Please!" Draco repeated, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the flood of unbearable pain that, once again was sweeping over his body. "Please help us."  
  
If dragons could sigh, Bellerophon would have been sighing now. "Much against my better judgement," he growled. "I consent to your wish. But we must make haste ... there is little time."  
  
**************  
  
They stood on the edge of the cliff ... below them the land dropped sharply away to the distant river, sparkling in the sunshine far below.  
  
"We won't make it!" yelled Harry.  
  
James gave him a reproachful look. "You must always consider the options open to you before you do something, and I'm doing that right now. There might just be a way," he said. "An animal could leap it."  
  
"We haven't got any animals," said Harry.  
  
And then he saw what his Father was thinking.  
  
"Oh, yes, we do."  
  
James smiled.  
  
"Get on with it," snapped Malfoy. "There isn't much time!"  
  
He was right as well. Behind them, they could hear the thundering roars, the crashes, the explosions as the volcano released it's pent up anger, the anger of a thousand years of abuse. The very earth was angry, and it would be appeased.  
  
"I can't change into Prongs," said James. "Not now. But, Harry. There is the remotest chance you might be able to."  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"There is a remote chance that you might be an animagus as well," said James. He smiled in response to the dumbfounded expression on Harry's face. "Of course, you might not be."  
  
"If it worked," said Lily. "You would all have a chance of life. If it does not, then there is none."  
  
"We should pray, then," said Malfoy, bitterly.  
  
James shrugged. "If you think that would help, then you're very welcome. Otherwise, Harry and I will be trying to accomplish something constructive."  
  
He turned back to Harry. "Now," he went on. "This is a chance in a million, but I think it might be the best chance you have. You already know you get out of this alive ... the question is to figure out exactly how you manage it."  
  
"Go on," said Harry.  
  
"Every so often, a specific code in the genetic makeup of a wizard makes him naturally prone to alter his morphic field."  
  
"His what now?"  
  
"His morphic field," repeated James, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "To change his shape, to change his species, temporarily. It is a recessive gene, so the chances of your inheriting it are minute ... but the very fact that I was able to become an animagus makes me hopeful for you."  
  
"How do I do it?" asked Harry.  
  
"Think it, Harry. If you can believe yourself to be an animal capable of leaping that gap, then, if you have the power, you will be that animal ..."  
  
"No wands?"  
  
"It is wandless magic ... very ancient and powerful," said James. "I believe you can do it."  
  
Harry considered for a moment, and then looked back Malfoy and Pettigrew ... Malfoy still had Pettigrew in a head lock. What animal would best be able to jump it? A kangaroo?  
  
He gasped, then cried out as his stomach gave a brief lurch, and he could feel a horrible pressure growing inside his skull. Without warning, his head seemed to burst open. Screaming in pain, Harry collapsed to the floor, clutching at his head, and coming out from beneath his scalp, he could feel bony protrusions, expanding and growing so quickly that they moved under his touch.  
  
"What's happening?"  
  
"The change," said his Father, sagely. "Antlers, Harry. Do people tell you we really are a lot alike?"  
  
"All the ... time," gasped Harry. He looked down at his bare arms and his chest, which were covered with a fine coating of downy hairs. As he watched, his fingers seemed to be consumed into his hand, and he could feel the flesh hardening, and darkening. Hooves.  
  
"Sirius always said you had it in you," he said. "He wanted to call you Bambi. And so you see, Harry. We are alike even to the last detail."  
  
Harry stood up, and pawed the ground with his new forelegs. He could feel the sharp stones underneath his hard hooves, but yet, they did not hurt, as they had done when he had had bare feet. And now, instantly, he knew what he had to do. He could see Gwyneth and Sirius standing on the other side of the yawning gap in the bridge. He knew he had to jump it. And he knew he would have to say goodbye now. He turned around, pawing the ground again, and his parents flung their arms about his neck.  
  
"We'll be waiting for you," said Lily. "We'll be waiting."  
  
Harry turned away. He knelt down to the ground, to allow Malfoy and Pettigrew to sit on his back.  
  
"I'm not sure this is going to work," he heard Malfoy whimper.  
  
Harry closed his eyes, and tried to think desperately of being on the other side of that gap, of landing there, safe, and away from the castle, untouchable. Then he felt himself moving, in response to some command that he did not think, he could feel his hooves pounding at the hard stone surface, hear the clattering sound. He dared not open his eyes ... but he would have to, he couldn't avoid it.  
  
He opened them, just in time to gauge the length of the leap he was going to have to make. It was at least ten, maybe twelve or fifteen feet. But there was no time to back away from it ... he would have to do it on this shot, and this shot only.  
  
He bellowed, and heard the angry cry of the stag he had become as he jumped. His whole world seemed to stop, and there was just him, suspended in midair, Pettigrew and Malfoy clinging to his back, and the only thing he could hear was his own raucous cry.  
  
And then he realised he wasn't going to make it. He heard Malfoy's unearthly scream as he fell short of the bridge, and he felt himself falling through space. Pettigrew leapt up for the bridge, managing to catch onto the overhang, where he dangled by his fingertips, yelling at the top of his voice for help.  
  
Harry heard nothing more than a miniscule pop as he turned back into his normal self ... he heard Malfoy slipping from his back, and he reached out, grabbing a piece of protruding rock with one hand. He could feel Malfoy holding tightly onto his legs, screaming. And he could feel his fingers clawing for a grip on the sheer cliff face.  
  
**************  
  
Bellerophon lifted off just as the lava flow poured down the stairs, bringing with it floating lumps of flaming metal, debris and rocks. Draco, sitting astride the saddle with Ron and Hermione clinging desperately to his back, cast his eyes across the bright morning sky. The ash cloud was spreading in a westerly direction, which meant south east was the obvious direction to fly in ...  
  
"I'm onto it," said Bellerophon, in answer to Draco's thoughts.  
  
Once again, Draco felt a rush of adrenaline and a surge of pure pleasure as the dragon's wings beat the sky, sending cold air rushing past him, and cooling him. Looking down he could see Hermes, being ridden by Tatiana, accompanied by Fred, George and Bill. They flew up above the cloud, and wheeled around above the castle, before swooping down through the gorge.  
  
They rounded the southernmost corner of the castle, only to find that the bridge was down. Draco goaded Bellerophon onwards, and as they passed underneath the wrecked bridge, Hermione let out a scream, which caused Bellerophon to wheel around again for another pass.  
  
"The human girl sees well," Draco heard Bellerophon growling. "There are people trapped. We must save them."  
  
"I thought you didn't want to change fate," said Draco.  
  
"Maybe not," said Bellerophon. "But who is to say this is not fate. I certainly am not ..."  
  
"Why couldn't we have had this discussion back in the cave?" sighed Draco. They flew back underneath the bridge, and for the first time, Draco could see clearly who the people were. It was Harry, clinging desperately to a bit of rock that looked, from his vantage point atop Bellerophon, most precarious indeed. And clinging to his leg, holding on by the skin of his teeth, was his own Father.  
  
"Okay, what do we do?" he asked Bellerophon.  
  
**************  
  
Harry could feel Malfoy's grip, pulling at his ankles, gripping ever tighter in sheer desperation. Around them, rocks were cascading down into the gorge. If they got hit by any one of them ... that dragon was drawing steadily nearer too ... the noise of its wings beating seemed to fill the entire world. Harry shut his eyes tight.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
He opened them again, and turned his head slightly to see where the shout was coming from. He nearly let go of his rock upon seeing that Draco, Ron and Hermione were sitting on the back of a hovering dragon.  
  
"Can you hear me?" Draco's voice again.  
  
"Only just!" he yelled.  
  
"Keep it down up there!" hissed Malfoy. "You might start something off!"  
  
Draco yelled again. "We're going to try and get you off. This is Bellerophon ... he's, um, well ... he's my dragon. He has an idea!"  
  
"Good for him!" gasped Harry, as his fingers slipped a bit more on the rock. The palm of his hand was sweating like it had never done before.  
  
The beating sounds of Bellerophon's wings filled the air ... the dragon was hovering ever closer, and he could hear yells, Hermione and Draco.  
  
"Don't move," breathed Malfoy, his fingernails digging into Harry's legs, and scratching at the skin. "Don't move a muscle."  
  
There was another explosion, and the rock face shuddered violently. Malfoy let out a yell of terror. Harry dug his fingers even more tightly into the rock. He looked up. Pettigrew was still standing on what remained of the bridge, silhouetted against the morning sunshine, it was impossible to tell what he was doing ... the likelihood was he was grinning.  
  
"Hold still," cried Draco. Harry shivered as Bellerophon cast his vast shadow over them. He could hear the dragon's low, raspy breathing, and that repetitive beating, pounding inside his skull.  
  
Another rock went tumbling past, and Malfoy cried out in alarm.  
  
"Father!"  
  
Harry could feel his grip slipping on the slick rocks. Frantically, he dug his nails into the crumbling surface. The ground was once again shaking violently, and fresh plumes of smoke were billowing forth from the wreckage of the castle.  
  
Voices came floating down from on high.  
  
"How are you with ropes, Hermione?"  
  
"We don't have a rope!"  
  
"Can't you magic one up or something?" asked Draco. "I thought you knew everything!"  
  
Hermione did not reply to this. Harry clung on even tighter, wondering what the hell she was doing that was taking so long. After about half a minute, Draco called out. "I'm lowering a rope!"  
  
Harry, whose eyes were fixed on the rapidly disintegrating surface he was clinging onto, chanced a glance upwards. Sure enough, a rope was dangling in mid air, and above it, he could make out the terrified visages of Draco and Tatiana, who were doing their best to cling onto both the rope, and Bellerophon at once.  
  
"Grab the rope, Harry!"  
  
Harry took a deep breath. He felt like he was hyperventilating, and try as he might, he could not force his fingers to part company with the rocks. Even the knowledge that he was dangling off the edge of sheer drop of at least six hundred feet could not galvanise him into action. He could feel bile rising in the pit of his stomach, and an all consuming fear that made him want to cry out.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
He shook his head, breathing deeply, muttering over and over to himself. "I cannot do this ... I cannot do this."  
  
"Harry," croaked Malfoy, his voice sounded strange and distant. "You must take the rope. If you do, one of us may have a chance of survival. If you do not, both of us will die today. You know you cannot die today."  
  
"Take the damn rope!"  
  
Tears were pouring down Harry's face. "I can't do it," he whispered. "I can't do it," every muscle in his body was taut, his arms were aching from the effort of holding both of them up. His face was sweat stained and filthy, his tattered robes thick with caked blood, the right lens of his glasses smashed. "I can't do it."  
  
"Harry! Take the rope!"  
  
Harry tried to move, but his body seemed to be not under his control. It was like trying to move mountains, not that he had ever done that. Nothing was responding. Even his breathing seemed to be automatic.  
  
"Harry, please. If I must die, then at least you know you will live!" gasped Malfoy. "If it helps, would you like me to let go of you?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I'm not going to ... not going to ..." he gasped.  
  
"But you must!"  
  
And then Harry remembered something. Hadn't his Father told him he wasn't going to die, that he was going to be all right? That meant, that surely must mean, he thought, that nothing can happen to me. I have to survive.  
  
Even if that means ...  
  
With a titanic effort, Harry ripped his hand away from the rock. He closed his eyes, fumbled blindly for the dangling rope, eventually making contact with it.  
  
"That's good, Harry. That's good!"  
  
He could feel Malfoy's grip slipping. Slowly, he took the other hand away, and clasped the rope tightly with that. At this, Bellerophon let out a bellow, and Harry felt himself swinging through space. He opened his eyes, to see the rock face flying past him at speed. The rope was trailing behind the dragon.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
Malfoy's voice now seemed so distant, so quiet, it could barely be heard above the rush of the wind.  
  
"I can't hold on any longer."  
  
"Wait!" screamed Harry.  
  
"I want you to tell Draco something from me. I want you to tell him that, from the very first moment I set eyes on him, I didn't think another creature on God's earth could compare to the beauty of my boy ... Harry, I want you to tell him I love ..."  
  
The grip around Harry's ankle vanished, and for a brief second, he heard the spine chilling scream of a dead man. He looked downwards. Lucius Malfoy plummeted into the gorge below ... his body striking the cliff face and rebounding off into midair.  
  
He had made his peace.  
  
Bellerophon flew higher, and with Harry still clinging to the rope, they flew out of the gorge, wheeled around, high above the shaking earth, and then descended to the ground, safely across the gorge. Bellerophon touched down on the dirt road, taking care to first allow Harry to let go of the rope, and fall the last two or three feet.  
  
Harry climbed slowly to his feet. He could hear the low, ominous rumbling of the volcano, billowing steam, ash and lava from the deepest depths of the earth into the atmosphere, and then the sounds of running footsteps, and shouts. Harry staggered drunkenly from side to side, his ragged robe covered now in a fine coating of yellow dust from the road. He was barely conscious of Hermione flinging her arms around him, of Ron joining the embrace, and of Fred and George flinging themselves on top of the three of them.  
  
And then he found himself face to face with Sirius. He had his arm protectively around Gwyneth, and was beaming. He stuck his hand out, and Harry took it, and shook it, and for the most fleeting of moments their eyes met, and Sirius' expression told Harry everything he needed to know.  
  
"Bloody good show, Harry," he said.  
  
"Thanks," breathed Harry.  
  
Draco sauntered over, his hand outstretched, and Harry took it, and they smiled at one another.  
  
"I wouldn't have expected that of you, Draco," said Harry.  
  
"I may be a complete bastard," said Draco. "But I do not let people die."  
  
"Your Father wanted me to tell you something," said Harry, who could feel the hot, prickly sensation of tears welling behind his sore eyes. "He wanted me to tell you, that ..."  
  
He got no further, for Draco had held up his hand to stop him. "I know," he said. "I know what he said. I had a feeling he still did."  
  
"Don't you want me to tell you?"  
  
"Believe me, Potter, I already know," Draco stepped backwards, and folded his arms. "Would you like to ride Bellerophon?" he asked. "I think there are some things you need to sort out ... some, people you need to say goodbye to?"  
  
Harry nodded. Of course there were. "Will it be safe?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "This is Draco Malfoy you're dealing with here. But it will be fun."  
  
Harry nodded, and followed Draco over to where Bellerophon and Hermes were kneeling. Tatiana was standing beside the larger dragon, wearing her thick gloves, and stroking the magnificent beast on the nose.  
  
"Would you like to take him up?" she asked.  
  
Draco nodded. "Harry has some things to do ..."  
  
"Climb aboard, Harry Potter," growled Bellerophon. "I have been expecting you."  
  
"Take great care not to touch with your skin," warned Tatiana, as Bellerophon knelt down as low as he could go, enabling Harry to half scramble, half climb onto the saddle. Draco stayed on the ground.  
  
"Aren't you coming?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "This is private," he said. "Bellerophon will sort you out."  
  
"Harry," growled Bellerophon. "I sense a great sadness within you. Do not be sad, for this is the happiest day of your life."  
  
Harry said nothing, and clung tightly to what looked like the handholds on either side of Bellerophon's saddle.  
  
And then they were flying, but this time, Harry kept his eyes open as they lifted off, and catching the breeze, took flight towards the ruined castle.  
  
"I believe," said Bellerophon, "that circumstance would favour your Godfather, Sirius Black, if we did something about that man, down there."  
  
Harry looked down. Pettigrew was still standing on the remains of the bridge, looking up at them, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands.  
  
"Let's get him!" he said.  
  
**************  
  
Pettigrew watched as the dragon circled overhead. He could make out its eyes, staring down at him, its enormous talons, its forked tongue, flicking at the air.  
  
And then the dragon was diving towards him, those fearsome talons outstretched, and Pettigrew could see the face of the rider, and the dragon roared. And he turned, and ran as fast as his stocky legs could carry him ...  
  
He heard the roar again ... a blood curdling roar, the force of which almost knocked him to the ground. He dared not look around, and as the shadow of the flying monster passed over him, he was overcome with such fear that he dropped to his knees.  
  
The dragon landed a few feet away, and Pettigrew watched as the rider dismounted. It was Harry.  
  
"Come for me, have you?" snarled Pettigrew. Bellerophon thwacked his tail from side to side, and growled softly.  
  
Harry's nose was turned up. As Pettigrew watched, there was a faint flickering behind him, and then two other people were walking alongside the boy. Two people he recognised.  
  
"You treacherous piece of crap!" said James Potter. "I ought to have Harry run you through where you stand."  
  
Lily stood a little way back, holding tightly onto her son's shoulders. The eyes of Bellerophon were still on Pettigrew, who was quivering.  
  
"You see what you did to us? You see what you have wrought? And for what, Peter? For what? For friends? You never had any friends ... you lost every friend you ever had the moment you signed over your life to Voldemort."  
  
"Please ... James ... my old, friend. I cannot atone for what I have done, but at least you must accept ..."  
  
"I accept nothing. I charge you to listen to me," said James. "Not I to your pathetic ramblings, Peter."  
  
He knelt down in front of the other man. Lily and Harry took a step forwards.  
  
"Do you remember what you said at the wedding? Do you remember that speech you made? Everyone thought it was so lovely, everyone thought you were so witty, so very apt ..."  
  
Peter nodded, frantically.  
  
"Tell me, Peter. Did you know then? Did you know what you were going to become? Was even that moment a lie? Because if there is one thing you really should remember from school, Peter, that is I hate being lied to."  
  
"James ... see how I grovel at your feet ..."  
  
James turned to Harry. "Will you do it?" he asked.  
  
Something Dumbledore had once said was niggling at the back of Harry's mind ... "The time may come when you will be very glad you saved Pettigrew's life." Should he kill him? Did he have that right? Would it not just be murder, in cold blood, like what Voldemort had done to his parents?  
  
"No," said Harry.  
  
Pettigrew looked up. "Then what?" he asked. "The Dark Lord will torture me as it is for my cowardice ... better I should die, Harry, than live, and be a burden on you."  
  
James and Lily were both looking at their son, with hopeful expressions on their faces. Harry looked to them, and then back to Pettigrew, who was still kneeling at their feet.  
  
Then it happened ... Pettigrew leapt to his feet, and before Harry could react, had yelled something incomprehensible, and Harry felt himself falling to the ground, cracking his elbow on the floor as he landed. Some unidentifiable curse whistled harmlessly overhead, striking a gilt statue of Lucius Malfoy, and shattering it to a thousand tiny pieces.  
  
"Never do that again, Wormtail," came Voldemort's voice. Harry looked up, to see him standing a few feet away, on top of one of the fallen blocks.  
  
"You die now," snarled Pettigrew. "I wash my hands of you ..."  
  
Voldemort chuckled. "You always were the imbecilic one, Wormtail. As if you had any hope of vanquishing me. That pleasure is to be denied you ... only one may have the honour of killing me. And I do not intend to let you have it, Harry."  
  
Harry got to his feet, clenching his fists. "I have no wand," he said. "What could I do against you?"  
  
Voldemort cocked his head on one side. "I could kill you where you stand. This charade would end, here and now ..." Lily clutched James, and whimpered. Voldemort continued to speak. "However, I shall not. I know that you do not die today, Harry, this is obvious to me now. And you always were a worthy adversary. Every time we have met so far, there has been one thing I have not considered, one aspect, or quality, call it what you will, of your mortal existence that I have failed to take into account. But there will come a day when your luck runs out. There will come a day when I am a step ahead of you, Harry. On that day, I will finish what I started, all those years ago ..."  
  
"You wouldn't have the aptitude," came another voice. Everyone turned hurriedly.  
  
It was Slytherin, looking a lot more solid, and grasping in his hand a pair of swords, brightly polished, with runic script engraved upon the blades, and handles that appeared to be of solid gold, encrusted with precious stones. James gave a start of recognition, though to Harry they were merely swords.  
  
"The gang's all here then," sighed James.  
  
"Indeed," smiled Slytherin. "Your idea was worthy, Potter, yet it took me little time to vanquish your so called ancestors back to the spirit realm to which they belong ..."  
  
"To which you belong," snapped James.  
  
Slytherin shook his head. "Ah, but I think not," he smiled again. "You see, Potter. I intend to stay, this time."  
  
A violent earth tremor nearly threw them all to the ground.  
  
"The world has a new Dark Lord, it would seem" said Slytherin, stepping down from his vantage point. Voldemort did the same. "Riddle knows what is coming. He knows what he must do. There can be only one who is truly of the Eighth Level in this World. And he knows that he cannot be the one."  
  
"The Eighth Level?" asked Harry.  
  
"I would not expect a boy to know what I meant," snapped Slytherin. "Hold your tongue ... I may yet have uses for you, Potter."  
  
"It is so," said Voldemort. The two men walked over to each other, until they were standing in the middle of the group, who instinctively drew back. The air was crackling with raw magic.  
  
Slytherin handed Voldemort one of the swords, and using the other, etched out a circle around them with the sharp tip of the blade. "You know what this means?" he asked Voldemort.  
  
Voldemort nodded. "I do, sir," he said. A smile was spreading slowly across his pinched face.  
  
"Step within this circle only if you have a death wish," began Slytherin, casting his eyes about the watchers with the air of a big cat  
  
The air around them seemed to be getting hotter, and Harry had an idea it wasn't the volcano doing that.  
  
Slytherin lowered his sword at Voldemort, and Voldemort did the same. Both men bowed to one another.  
  
"One of us must die now," said Slytherin. "For when a circle is drawn, only one may step out of it and live."  
  
"Bow to your conqueror, then" snarled Voldemort, the bottom of his lip curling into a grimace. The ends of the blades touched, and the sun glinted off them.  
  
"Oh, but I think not!"  
  
Voldemort lunged forwards, but Slytherin sidestepped smartly out of the way. Voldemort stumbled, whirled around, the hem of his robes burning as they brushed outside of the circle.  
  
"You have to get up earlier than that to catch me," taunted Slytherin.  
  
Voldemort appeared to be choking. He was looking straight up at the sky, and a shadow had fallen across the circle. Harry, James, Lily and Wormtail all looked up, following the Dark Lord's gaze.  
  
Bellerophon was hovering overhead. He was silhouetted against the blue sky, his wings beating, fanning the watchers on the ground. And then he bellowed, and the world seemed to split apart ...  
  
A jet of fire flashed down. Voldemort stepped backwards, and the fire struck Slytherin. There was an ear splitting scream ... and Lily grabbed Harry and hid his face in her arms. Slytherin was burning up, chunks of his body were falling from him, crumbling to ashes as they struck the ground, and then continuing to burn. The screaming, which was all Harry could hear, as his eyes were once again shut tight, awoke within him such pains and memories, that they seemed to penetrate to the very heart of his soul, and abruptly, he found himself surrounded by swirling mists ... black, dense fog clouded his brain ... and through that fog he could see too faces, peering at him. One of them was Hermione's, and the other, Draco's.  
  
Slytherin's screams echoed through his skull, but Harry did not feel a part of that world. The black mist was enveloping his senses ... he could hear the crackle of flames, and his own, breathing. A smile spread across Draco's face. And distant voices, voices from a far off place, and a far off time ...  
  
"Draco?" he heard himself whisper, and he could feel his hand reaching out to touch Draco's face, but the hand that he saw before him was not his own ... it was that of a baby.  
  
Now the other world was drawing him back, the noise was slowly abating, and he could hear and smell the volcano once more.  
  
Finally, the noise subsided ... and all Harry could hear was his own laboured breathing, his Mother's ragged sobs and the sounds of the dragon overhead.  
  
He opened his eyes. The circle had vanished, and the swords were lying on the ground, crossed. Of Voldemort, there was no sign, he had gone as though he had never been there in the first place. And of Slytherin, there was naught but a pile of smouldering ash.  
  
There was a thudding sound as Bellerophon landed on one of the walls.  
  
"The time has come, Harry," he said. "Peter, will you come with us?"  
  
Pettigrew looked to James, and Lily, his eyebrows raised.  
  
"Peter. You ... you saved my son's life. You saved his life," said James. "I ... don't know what I can say to you. I would embrace you, as a brother ..."  
  
Pettigrew looked down. "I will take my punishment, as I deserve," he said.  
  
James offered him his hand. They shook, Pettigrew's eyes filled with the tears he had not had a chance to shed when James and Lily died.  
  
"Peter, Harry, there is not much time!" growled Bellerophon. "You must come now!"  
  
Pettigrew made to seize Harry, but he wriggled free. "Let me have two minutes!" he gasped.  
  
"Two minutes only," said Pettigrew. Gathering his robes around him, he scrambled up onto the rubble where Bellerophon was perched, and began to pick his way up the rocks ...  
  
Harry stood in front of his parents. His Mother's eyes were filled with tears, and his Father's with admiration.  
  
"You've come through a lot," Lily said, after a few seconds had passed. "I'm sorry we couldn't have been there."  
  
"You must avenge us, Harry," said James. "For us to truly die, and for us to live on in the memories of those who knew us ... you, Sirius, Remus, even Pettigrew, for all the good he did, you must fulfil your part of the bargain first ..."  
  
"There is a pact," said Lily. "And while it stands, you will be able to do what you must. And then who knows? Your life has paths aplenty, some not mapped out for you, some clear. Some twists too, I daresay. I know in my heart you can win, and someday soon, you will know everything, and you will know what you must do. And then you can do whatever is necessary to bring down the poison that has ruined so many. And I know we will be together again, at some point in the future ..."  
  
"Stay," breathed Harry, his eyes brimful of tears.  
  
Lily shook her head. "You know we are only spirits. You know we cannot stay."  
  
Harry reached out his hands. "Then let me ... just one more time, let me ..."  
  
Lily looked to James, and both of them nodded, and they stepped forwards, taking Harry in their arms. "We'll be right with you."  
  
Harry could feel their arms around him, his Mother's hands idly fiddling with his dirty, matted hair, his Father's breath. The pain that still racked his body seemed to fade slightly, though Harry had the feeling this was but an illusion.  
  
Lily bent down slightly, and kissed him on the top of the head, then, taking his head in her hand, held him tightly, as if she never wanted to let go.  
  
"Harry!" that was Bellerophon's voice. The ground was starting to shake alarmingly now. Lily broke away from the embrace.  
  
"Don't cry, Harry."  
  
"I can't help it," breathed Harry. "I'm not going to see you again, am I?"  
  
"Not for a while," said Lily. "But remember, we're right with you."  
  
Harry nodded, and took a step backwards. His parents linked arms.  
  
"Harry! Come on! There's no time for this."  
  
"Be good," James said, raising his hand in salute. "Remember what I taught you."  
  
Harry nodded, then turned away, partly, he reasoned, so that they did not have to see him crying, though the real reason was so that he didn't have to see them. Slowly, he walked over to Bellerophon.  
  
"Climb aboard. We must go now!"  
  
Bellerophon stooped to the ground, allowing Harry to scramble once again onto the leather saddle. Bellerophon spread his wings, and took off.  
  
There was a rush of air as the dragon lifted off from the burning wreckage of what had once been a magnificent castle. If, Harry thought, this had been a film, there would have been a triumphant refrain playing, but all that could be heard was the faint whispering of the breeze in the afternoon air, Bellerophon's low, soft breathing, and Pettigrew's terrified whimpering. Harry gripped the sides of the saddle even more tightly. He looked down at the ground ... his parents were standing on what had been the dais in the middle of the Animation Chamber, waving their farewells, their faces alive with happiness. As Bellerophon gained height, their outlines shimmered and their forms became blurred, and then, like a television picture, they flickered off, and vanished. The spell was broken. Harry looked away, choking on his own tears and bitterness. Voldemort was gone, but probably not for long, and while he still had life ... and Harry had nothing. He coughed again, and wiped his eyes on the sleeves of what remained of his robes, so that Pettigrew would not see him crying.  
  
He could still see their faces in the back of his mind, smiling at him ... his Father's hair and rounded glasses, looking so like him, and yet so different. And those sparkling green eyes, all he had been told about his Mother's beauty was true ... none of the photos could ever do her justice. And it was so bitterly, bitterly painful.  
  
The next few minutes did not seem real. They touched down safely on the other side of the gorge, and Harry closed his eyes and turned away so that his friends could not see the state he was in as they climbed onto the dragon's back. And then they were off again, flying for home. Home.  
  
He felt Sirius' hands rubbing life and heat into his shoulders, but he did not want that. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone, that he might wallow in his unhappiness for as long as he wanted. He shoved his Godfather rudely away, and Sirius wisely did not bother him again. Harry gripped the edges of the giant saddle even more tightly. The sensation of flying was oddly calming, the motion of the dragon's body and the rhythmic beating of those vast wings ... it was like being rocked in a cradle ...  
  
... They flew through the night, soaring high over the shimmering Black Sea, dotted with the lights of Muggle ships, Harry, Hermione and Sirius clinging desperately to their saddles as Bellerophon glided swiftly westwards on the warm updrafts. Draco sat at the front, riding the dragon's mind, seeing the world through his eyes, a profusion of colour, sound and smell, even at this hour of the night.  
  
Behind them came Tatiana, riding Hermes with Gwyneth and the Weasleys, all four of whom were clinging fearfully to each other, in between stealing terrified glances at the sea below.  
  
Now they were flying overland. High mountains down below, forests hiding villages and towns, with the headlights of cars moving along roads.  
  
The countries flitted past in quick succession, Bulgaria (Harry noticed Hermione looking wistfully down at Viktor Krum's homeland as they went), Serbia, here the ground dotted with fires, a dangerous, lawless place, then the Adriatic, then Italy ... they flew low over the Apennines, where the stars seemed to twinkle even more brightly over the cradle of civilisation, and the air was scented with the pine trees far below. Lights of cities ... Rome, the ruins of the ancients illuminated by floodlights, Turin, with its factories, Geneva, hemmed in on three sides by high peaks, and on the fourth by the lake ... Stuttgart, passing close by the soaring TV Tower that dominates that city, then flying along the Rhine valley, glistening water shimmering far below ... Frankfurt, Bonn, Dusseldorf, Essen. Now Holland, the river twisting and meandering as it approached the sea.  
  
Harry shivered ... the thin cloak his Mother had given him was little protection against the chill of northern climes. The wind picked up as they crossed the North Sea, and there were cloud banks towering into the air ahead of them as they approached the Norfolk coast. He had forgotten just how chilly England was.  
  
Bellerophon reared in alarm, causing Draco to do the same.  
  
What is this? He heard the dragon ask, as usual, his voice growling right inside his head.  
  
Just clouds, thought Draco. You get used to it. Welcome home, Bellerophon.  
  
I knew I should have stayed in Russia ... clouds clog my wings.  
  
Bellerophon wanted to fly above the clouds, but Draco insisted on going underneath so as to be able to see where they were going, so they dropped down very low indeed, and when the riders on the dragon's back dared to open their eyes, they were treated to hitherto unseen views of the countryside, the pastoral greenery giving way in turn to wild, untamed moors. It was very, very cold indeed now, Harry's teeth were chattering nineteen to the dozen, and Draco's eyebrows appeared to have frozen. They had to be nearing Hogwarts now.  
  
Harry sensed it before anybody else, a tangible feeling of excitement, of raw magic. Through the darkness of the Northumbrian night, his eyes could make out the dark bulk of mountains that looked too tall to be allowed. He could make out the shape of the Hog's Head, and then, below him, he saw the lights of a small village, clinging to the lower slopes of the peak. Hogsmeade. Bellerophon seemed to know which way to go ... presumably this was because Draco was giving him directions. The two dragons wheeled around to the east, and the brooding turrets of Hogwarts had never looked so welcoming before. He could hear faint cries of delight carrying through the air from the Weasleys.  
  
They swooped low over the Castle lawns. It was all as though nothing had happened, thought Harry, waves of utter relief sweeping across his body ... there was Hagrid's hut, nestling in the lee of the hill, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest ... there the lake ... water inky black, there the drive ... there lights still burning at the top of Gryffindor Tower.  
  
Now people came ... running across the lawns towards them as they landed, waving frantically, bearing flaming torches. Harry recognised Dumbledore, wearing a heavy camel hair dressing gown, Professor McGonagall, in her hairnet, following behind, and even ... Harry had to pinch himself ... he had never before thought he would be pleased to see Snape, and who was that, at the back of the crowd? Hagrid, no less!  
  
Bellerophon touched down with barely a jolt, and the riders hurriedly dismounted, Draco being helped down by Hermione and Sirius, still clutching at his chest. With Harry standing over them, his cloak halfway off his shoulder, shivering uncontrollably, they laid Draco out on the grass, just as Snape elbowed his way to the front of the crowd.  
  
"Clear the decks," he was saying. "Move along there!"  
  
Harry found himself being seized around the shoulders by Dumbledore, and moved out of the way. He was sat down on the wet grass, and though his vision was blurring through tiredness, he could make out the faces of the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall peering at him.  
  
"Harry? Harry?"  
  
Someone else draped a thicker cloak around his shoulders, and Harry felt the rim of a goblet being pushed against his lips. He drank deeply, without being fully aware that that was what he was doing ... it tasted like wine, and was warming as it trickled down his parched throat.  
  
"You should take this," Dumbledore was saying. "It will help. Then you need rest. See that the other boys do not disturb him, Minerva."  
  
"I want to speak to him!" he heard Ron's voice in the distance. Other people shouting, that sounded like Sirius, or maybe Fred ... he couldn't tell.  
  
Harry closed his eyes against them, wishing frantically they would all go away, and leave him be, to sleep and rest as long as he needed. Someone took him by the hand, and hauled him to his feet.  
  
" ... will need to speak to the boy in the morning," another, unidentifiable voice was saying " ... consorting with murderers, no less ... I dare say the Dementors will be looking forward to meeting Black."  
  
Harry gave a start, his heart now pumping fit to bust, and tried to wriggle out of Professor McGonagall's grip, but she was holding his hand too tightly. Who had taken Pettigrew ... didn't Hermione have him somewhere? Get to Hermione! He struggled more frantically, and he could hear anguished shouts ... his own, but yet, not his own ... at least, he certainly didn't feel he was making them.  
  
"In the morning, Harry," she said, tugging him along, the grass soft and wet against the bare soles of his feet.  
  
"But they have ... that man ..."  
  
"In the morning," said Professor McGonagall. "It'll be okay ... nobody's going to disappear overnight, Harry."  
  
His insides paralysed with fear, and relief, and such terrible, terrible sadness, Harry allowed himself to be led away ... he had never wanted his Mother to be there with him so much, as he did at that moment, with the din of the crowd clustering around the dragons fading away, and with Professor McGonagall's voice echoing through his confused mind. He wanted to be held again, to breathe her in, and never to let go of that fleeting, precious moment, to be locked in the embrace in perpetuity. It was so horribly unfair. He choked back his tears ... before realising that really ... it didn't matter. He let himself go. He had never cried so hard before. Professor McGonagall stopped him, and he could sense her, through his bleary eyes, as the tears stained his pallid cheeks, standing over him, regarding him with a look of such pity, and then she did something she had never done before, to any student. She took him in her arms, and held him there like he was her own child.  
  
"Please don't tell," Harry choked. "Please don't ..."  
  
She hushed him, and they stood there, in the centre of the Hall ...   
  
**************  
  
Draco was half sitting up, half lying down on the ground as Snape conjured up fresh bandages to replace the ripped robes Hermione had used. He was feeling giddy. He could see Sirius, Ron and the other Weasleys peering at him.  
  
"You'll be fine," Snape was saying, winding the bandages tightly around his chest. "We just need to get Madam Pomfrey onto you, as soon as possible. Do you feel up to walking, or would you like me to cast a spell on you."  
  
Draco wasn't listening ... instead he was watching ... two men had detached themselves from the crowd of students and staff, whom Dumbledore was trying to corral some distance away, so as not to disturb Bellerophon and Hermes, who were pawing at the ground and snorting in alarm. They toiled up the hill towards the little group.  
  
Sirius turned around as they approached, and Draco could see his face falling as he realised who the men were.  
  
"Sirius Black?" began one of them, flashing something at him, which looked to Draco like a warrant card.  
  
"My name is Wilmot," said Sirius, though he did not sound at all sure of himself. "Xavier Wilmot. I've never even heard of Sirius Black," Draco observed that the look in his eyes was now one of a man being hunted, being caught.  
  
The other men ignored his words. "I am Detective Inspector Hammond, of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, and this is my colleague, Styles. Mr. Sirius Black ... we are arresting you for conspiracy to evade prison, conspiracy to abduct and abuse minors and breach of the Court Order of August 26th 1993 that prohibits you from contact with one Harry Potter. You will be taken forthwith from this place and returned to Azkaban to await preparation for your trial. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. If found guilty on these charges, you will be handed over to the Dementors."  
  
None of them had ever seen Sirius look so pale ... his head hung, his arms held out submissively, uselessly in front of him, as the manacles were clapped around his wrists.  
  
THE END.  
  
A/N  
  
Yes, end, done, finished! At last! Well, that took, oh, about four months; Dracaena Draco was conceived on the 22nd of September, and though the finished product looks a lot different from what I had originally planned, I'm pleased with it. Though of course, there were mistakes ... I noted with alarm that the original premise of the story; the plant Dracaena Draco (which I am now told does exist, mainly in Arizona, and is good for, amongst other things, incense), fell by the wayside about halfway through the story. Not that anybody noticed, of course. Aside from the small matter of my plot disintegrating around me, I was helped out immeasurably by my lovely betas, Viola and Karina, who deserve a vote of thanks purely for existing, and for sorting out my lax comma skills, as well as their little inserted comments, which are a pleasure to read, and have on occasion made me snigger very loudly at my computer.  
  
And the other credits here. All the lovely reviewers! Thanks to the following ... the unsurpassable (and telepathic) Cassie Claire, rave, for her outbursts of spontaneous reviewing madness, Simon ... at whose feet I grovel for marrying him to 'that Muggle cook ... Norwich City supporter,' Keith, Rhysenn, Melpomene, Yael, Portia, Sanna, Inspiring Author, Lizzy/Tygrestick, Sinead (actually, you reviewed twice), Kayara, Amanita Lestrange, Dia, heidi tandy, Starling, magical little me, Portia, Liz, Tyr the One Handed, Rathera Mutemwiya, meee, Molly, Alicia/Sue, Rosa, Elyssa, AngelFace, darkangel, Luvverly Adacini, dani, Little Miss Priss, Elaine Black, TigressLily, Cali, Hydra/Serpentese, MK ... you do know what moron means, I hope ... don't worry about it, it made me laugh, zephyr, Pantalaimon and audiaa2. Every single one of you is/are ?? wonderful, and of course virtual hugs all round! Also thanks to everybody who voted for me on the Phoenix thingy!  
  
And what next? Well, you'll shortly notice Snitch, a piece of future fic, which I've started, and intend to carry on with. However, as this is an R rated piece, and by implication (and I'm afraid the implication is of slash) is NOT suitable for everyone who reads this. It may even be offensive to you, or against your religious convictions, and if this is the case, then I strongly recommend that you DO NOT READ IT! However, fear not, for I am starting a new series immediately after this. The Time of Trial picks up a few weeks after Dracaena Draco finishes, but it is not a sequel in the traditional sense. A few plot threads will be carried over, but not many, as I intend for Time of Trial to be readable as a stand alone. Please watch out for it ... the first part is finished already, and will probably be up in about a week, the inherent vagaries of my mind and life notwithstanding. It will be like my others, rated PG-13, and should therefore be suitable for most, if not all of you (forgive me, I'm just conscious I don't offend anybody with Snitch).  
  
That's it. Dracaena has been a pleasure to write, I've enjoyed myself immensely, and the only thing left to say is ... please review.  



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